Aunt Edith's scarves startle me as
they tumble out of the antique hat box,
floating softly to the ground in streams
of indigo, forest green, cerulean, with
angles and lines. Abstract impressionism
on silk.

Silk scarves! I'm Isadora Duncan now
twirling in a dazzling whirl of silk in
front of the cracked mirror.

Aunt Edith's scarves. Patrician lady demanding in sonorous tones,
"Nothing but the best, nothing but silk for a lady like me!"

She fades from memory. The light streams in.
Isadora too is gone.
I'm left with myself in the cracked mirror,
and silk, soft and ancient, covering my face,
darkening with my tears.

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