Choking dust encircles my head
Creeps alongside my bed
Like so many forgotten chores
When life has opened other doors
Yet times await in this short life
Places, sites, or smells delight
My fancies for a lack of toil
Instead to be on peaceful soil
Where no one asks for sweet perfume
Nor hedges straight and in full bloom
They care not for a new prediction
On yet another health affliction
And thus I seek new ways to feed
My already weakened memory
Of he who used to share my bed
Since all that’s left is in my head
—Victoria Emmons, June 2012
La Vue de rue Sleidan 