veronica

I imagine she sits on her legs
on her hardwood floor
first comtemplating the room,
then her pen and paper,
then the freedom

as she rips her way through every word
until it is sand

the sequence of movements
after her fingers find ink, linking letter to letter
about what happened last year or this morning
at her stove or on her sidewalk
who could ever know her
or the secret that perfumes each wink and step.

and of course, I had to ask.
why she tears and destroys what she writes
and scribbles, and creates?
to which she replied sweetly,
"because it's mine", with her small hand over her heart.

oh, I think she is moonlight for having said that.