Under the canopied loquat tree,
a wisp of breeze barely felt,
she waits a time
not ticking by;
an eternity.
For here it is that she found
a safety rarely known;
and once the night
cast down its cape,
spared, for now.
In the shadows cast by leaves
from moonlight barely there,
among the crop ignored,
a wraith
untouched.
The fright always present
yet no consequence,
but the feeling won’t pass,
that sliver of glass,
minuscule but mortal.
So she waits forever more
under the loquat tree.
Barely a breeze,
always there,
among unclaimed fruit.