Jet Lag

From the dark stopover sleep
she resurrects
in the Honolulu Surf Hotel
under a dazzle of counterpane flowers.

And the sun too can hardly be believed,
beaming deep into the room
from an unequivocal blue sky
as if it had never been away.

But a heaviness like clay is on her.
Gently her limbs are shepherded from sheets
and guided into clothes, like invalids
long shut away from living.

Later, there’s a small breakfast
in a room that melts to open air.
The chair and table are as light as twigs;
a small bird hops, pauses.

She drinks deep of the orange juice,
great drafts into the veins.
She wants to hold on the sun, until the blood
begins to run again.

– Norma Rowen

For Author's biography, please click: Rowen Norma