Her blue eyes– dispirited.

Her ingenuity went down with the sun,

but broke the promise that it would return at dawn.

And how can one contently sit on their porch and savor their 5:13 A.M. coffee if the East has ceased to shine its rays?

I wondered what the world looked like on her porch in the forenoon.

As her lips gently kiss her mug-

I wonder–

is she able to admire the watercolor skies the way she used to bask in the intricacy of a museum painting?

I remember how I used to catch her fixed on a piece most visitors stroll by, intrigued by a lone detail.

I wonder–

Did she dream of downpour to cure her everlasting drought?

Could she no longer feel the morning dew of possibility along her freckled skin?

Did she stop using her porch when she grew weary of waiting for a sunrise that would never come?

Without power over the weather, how could one salvage her bleary essence?

I wondered.

One hand grasping the mug handle,

one hand grasping her wrist,

I led her to the porch;

instead, we listened to the rustling of the trees.