The books from her young life,
In rows once arranged, a last time, years past.
They stand like fragile prisoners, erect still, a fading pride,
           toward the soldiering brilliance.
The furnace sun, vehemently glaring through wide-blinded windows
Fades their covers and spines, bakes, dominates, does not blink.
This room is hot—
A yellow, dry room.

A reader once.
Once, but not again.
She would care more,
Would close the blinds and majesterially shun the sun,
And feel the books she loves—mentors, friends—
And read, remember, relish.
But now sits, stiffly, thin, eyeing an empty room,
Not this room,
On a warm brown couch, silent.
Motionless and also dry.
A book herself in the other yellow, dry room.

She would care more,
She would love them with her hands,
And eyes.
But she in one room,
And they another before the beading eye of this relentless sun. Dry.
Their words alike should be read again, but their covers are dry.