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6:24 AM
( Private: Sisters. )
The mornings smell of rain.
But not of soil.
Still, the crack of ice echoes from somewhere.
And sunlight stretches through the windows more persistently each evening.
It will soon be time to return.
So many weeks have passed since last we spoke warmly, easily, sweetly.
Will we, too, disappear into time so readily?
Or was that simply inevitable?