by Lynda DeWitt

Leaning over,
I hold my breath to hear hers.
So small, she makes no dent in the mattress.
So cold, she shivers under six layers.

And just like that
filmy gray eyes open
within her troubled face,
and in them, I see

the certain flash of eternity.
A cascade of landscapes and loyalties,
like pages in a flip book,
race across her seeping gaze

and is gone.