Her home with the fractured skull and bones stands exposed to the eccentric weather. There are wounds in its grey skin. Yet she prefers her broken shelter to the roadside forebodings. She shuts her fragile door on the night and mind-locks it before curling up in serenity. Flowers fall through the chinks in her wall from the streetlight. Flakes of the sunshine wake her up from the divinity coated dreams. Fantasy overlaps her wizened sense. Her son comes to take all the precious things except her under the pretense of protection. Since the soul treasures everything, loss is just a worldly seeming. First published in The Literary Hatchet