Her Name is Worry

Just words

She sits up all night

Alone in a cold house.

She glides silently into the kitchen

To brew another pot of coffee.

She will not sleep tonight.

 

Again.

 

Her long, silver hair tells a lie

As it brushes her young shoulders.

She wears no shoes as she

Paces the worn path across the floor.

 

Again.

 

White petals fall to the floor,

Her little game of question.

Will it? Won’t it? This one? That one?

Yes? No?

 

Again.

 

She becomes your confidant.

Always asking.

 

What if?