All day it is with her like a song


even as she slices a breakfast orange,


brushes her hair,


shuts a window.


She is listening to it


when company calls


and she talks about yesterday's news,


pours tea,


says good-bye at the door.


Then, alone with it finally


in late afternoon,


she puts it on the desk,


arranges it


as though she were putting flowers in a vase.


Then she slips it into the envelope,


seals it with her tongue.


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