Portrait of a Woman

She holds the book to her breast
the pages bent, well read showing
the marks of time spent in communion
with the words within.
She looks out of her world
pensive with the doubts that plague
her, the fears that await her comings
and goings, the need for love,
the desire for self, for worth,
for touch.
Her fingers, on the crease of leather
the binding pressed, her thumb poised
her voice silenced in the thoughts
of love and life and the desire for
hot coffee, silken cream on scones
the moments alone when the mists
play against her window to the
morning lulled by the violins
and cello, the bassoon wails
into the space that fits all these things
that are now and will always be her

place.