Frances

She notes a distant ground, the hall’s public telephone, a ball of wool when found, she won't dine or sing, luminous but not alone, strapped to this old thing, her elegant fleece of Down, like the Book she holds, keeps feet on the ground, what better cure for anything, than watch the sea blue soak, beyond her hundred kin, her drink is whiskey sour, lavender linen eau de cologne, she whispers out her love, her face is shining pink, she can see them all, see them rise and think, what Nana has foretold ?