A Touch of Blue
Cotton cloth with white polka-dots drew me from my bed. Awake enough to see clumps of wet leaves held the clue in place. What female child or grown woman’s dress was this? The site wormed its way past morning prayers, comforter and routine. The coffee’s on, the bed not made, and yet I follow the paths of thought to unlock the meaning. Is there, unburied, enough to stop my day? Is some spirit from beyond beckoning me to tell her tale? She’s gone I know, no help needed now, just the want of story. So was she blonde or curly headed? Were her eyes sparkling blue, or dark with unleashed passion? There had to be a he, unattainable. Angry at her persistent claims on him. And so he did it, put her down, like a sick dog. Shed of place on earth, under it now as best he could. His life restored to normalcy. Except in the early dawn when the sight of that flash of blue-polka dotted skirt flits through shades of his sleep. Then he waits inside his heart, shortening the days before he meets her again?
Interesting. Is this the opening of one of your books?