Her Mirror, Reflecting Winter Sands
Pillows piled on the bed, covered in ruffles, coordinating.
I ask this: had our lives allowed, we would have become
Look. Her open Irish face, her guileless blue eyes, her
friends. One to cancer, one to a heart attack that came without warning,
walking down to the little inlet beach on the bay,
snow mostly melted. More due tonight and tomorrow.
She brushes tangles out of her hair. It hangs down, straight, and
where is she?
Airy white cosmos, and black-eyed Susans.
Upstairs to bed as soon as she finishes her plate.
Source Text: The Ice Margin, by Marcia Woodruff Dalton. Techniques include erasure, punctuation changes and reversed pronouns in the final line.