I am too absorbed in my own grief
too deeply held by self pity
that I spend my days and nights
somewhere between the stairs of the library
and coffee shops,
losing my grip slowly
on childhood’s laughter
and a woman’s dream.
Viewing life, as it ought to be
missing home and friends
where I need to be,
I pretend not to notice
this window of time
when sunshine falls on my small pot of flowers
and the dog twitches her nose half asleep.
Again how hard to believe
that Losar came and left
in a somewhat hurried western-way.