She holds it like a chastened bloom
pressed flat by winter\u2019s heavy palm\u2014
a slip of lace, a breath of loom,
a quiet relic asking calm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Yet through its threads, a ghostly rose
has blossomed where her breath had bled;
it stains the cloth in tender throes,
a muted script her lungs have read.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No vivid cry of crimson fire,
no theatrical, artful mark\u2014
but pale confession of the pyre
that smolders softly in the dark.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She folds it once, as ladies do,
with fingers trained in old refrains\u2014
as though propriety could subdue
the fragile ache that still remains.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
O wan embroidery of pain,
O sigh caught in a woven net\u2014
your color fades like autumn rain,
but tells a truth she can\u2019t forget.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And in her hand, the cloth becomes
a quiet treaty with her years:
a place where all her sorrow hums
yet finds its dignity in tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So rests the lace, so rests her breath\u2014
the world still swirling, sharp and swift\u2014
while she, acquainted well with death,
offers the handkerchief as gift\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not one of tragedy alone,
nor some tragic heroine\u2019s art,
but fabric where her life is sewn
with stubborn beauty, stitched by heart.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
She holds it like a chastened bloom pressed flat by winter\u2019s…<\/p>\n