Her phantom fingers find me
—sometimes —
in the maudlin morning,
periwinkle ribbons
sweeping the tops of
the woods below
my window,
and — perhaps —
she brushes my forehead,
pushing aside my boyish bangs,
like a feather tickle,
and her familiar
hushes my harrow,
reigning in the rain,
clearing away the clouds,
like breakfast dishes,
the day ripe for picking,
the sun fulgent,
my clothes laid out on
the bed,
corners tucked,
pillow fluffed,
a note in my lunch pail,
soup tight in the thermos,
textbooks
in hand,
her voice silken
and sincere,
arms embowed
like a cradle,
those filigree fingers
urging me
into the world,
and I
smile
and go into
the fray
with fortitude.