Poetry written by a Borderline

Her Shadow

Light the match.

Warm the hearth.

She sighs.

Not yet, I tell her.

She glances at the frost outside-

then at my tattered cloak.

I will patch it, I tell her.

With my patched up cloak,

I leave the house.

Collect the water.

I look into the bucket,

and she does too.

I'll boil it, I tell her.

On our path,

my boots rip.

She glances at the rocky path,

I'll be careful, I tell her.

Lovely berries.

She eats a berry and offers me one,

but I see her giggling shadow.

I decline the fruit.