Something makes her day like a trawling net,

and she tries to understand in a rational manner –

this time.

There is a morning pain,

not that of the fertile kind.

More around the chest,

to the left.

She cups the little

red seed,

in her morning hands …

droplets of her dew

seep through her

creating fingers.

She puts her nose to it,

and closes her eyes,

and the pain in her chest

subsides.

Echoes …

subsides,

… echoes,

subsides.

A beat,

her internal beat is matched.

Her face, hands, dew, seed …

fit like a stripy glove.