Karen McFeaters
My paintings, prose, photos and rambling thoughts.
As she lay in bed, her lover gone.
She gazed across the room. Anything that was white, glowed.
The lampshades, the trim on the doors.
The fan at the foot of her bed.
She strained to hear the music in the other room but couldn’t.
The fan chirped and whirred, much more loudly.
Only the rhythm and mood of the music was discernible and maybe the era in which it was created.
It was comforting. The music.
And also the fan and the way it made the comforter and sheets ripple.
Sort of like a soft foam which bubbles and dances above the incoming tide.
And so it glows when your lover goes.
