and, of course...
the realizatioin,
while sipping tea with friends,
the remorse of trying
to make amends for something
she doesn't quite remember,
minute scraps of tattered patchwork,
pieced together in a flimsy throw,
of little things that mattered,
but somehow she didn't know.

a composite slightly out of focus
of endless days and sleepless nights,
with countless hours and years
entrenched in a comic hocus-pocus
of magical relief that a belief
of going throuogh the motions creates notions of insured security,
paid for on a grand installment plan,
aliigned with bits and pieces of apologies
and wilted guilt etched
in an airtight contract,
signed, sealed, occasionally
delivered with the morning paper,
as if the revelation was the headline news,
lying on the table in a puddle of weak sunlight
that highlights little letters marching tightly, unbroken side by side to spell out
everything and nothing.
that maybe, when she is able
she will settle up her dues.
and..
after a fashion
the silly chatter that droned on and on
buzzed out the open window
to melt into the lilacs fragrant afterglow,
a sweet reminder of some long
forgotten passion
wrapped in linen and old mothballs,
stored about in dusty closets
where memories remain
on old bent hangers waiting
to be ironed out.
Hesitating, then setting down her cup
she mentions to no one in particular
that she can smell the rain.