© Charleston Trust Photograph by Axel Hesslenberg
She thought she would wilt
when the parlor door shut.
Perched on a sticky folding chair,
she fluffed the ruffles of her sundress,
but the flicking of her funeral fan
simply sent more sultry air
to slap her face. The men in ties
tuned up, brows glistening,
peering at the pages through
the thick humidity. What could
the black spots mean?
She caught a breath as they caught theirs,
and with a nod, bows stroked strings,
growling, prowling, sweetly singing.
She closed her eyes and flew away
on the soaring, sudden breeze.
This door takes me back to Charleston, South Carolina. Someday I'll return and soak up the heat of the Spoleto USA arts festival...