Widow's Walk
The rail is cold beneath her palms,
Fingers curling, knuckles white.
Her face is smooth, expression calm,
Stomach burning, heartstrings tight.
The wood is worn, the floorboards creak -
Pacing footsteps through the night.
By raging sea, her tired eyes seek
A hopeful glimpse, a hopeless sight.
And in her mind, his face is etched -
A distant memory from this height.
With hair blown back and arms outstretched,
She appears ready to take flight.
Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2012
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