The papers lay in wait, unsigned.
She woke, not feeling her heart.
“What must I do?”
When what-ifs turn to done deals.
The dress came alive when worn.
”It’s a scan.”
”But of what?”
A wilted flower makes most noise.
Iron bends; she flamed the fire.
“Bibliophile’s Achilles heel: books about books!”
“Gone for months; now back again?”