She moves like air among the blush-pink roses
wearing their scent like a shroud.
Waiting in the silence of spring, watching
for me to show face – same time, same place.
This is her playground now
her library, her peace.
I appear; and as ritual dictates
she asks me to open the book.
Then tracing the art of calligraphy
she stops on the name
and nothing has changed -
all the greys of yesterday remain.
She continues to relive
her very own Groundhog Day.