It could have been her high school shadow
she chased. The cut of her profile
and the mail carried school-girl style
said eighteen.

She used to capture shadows of leaves.
Barely breathing, she'd wait for the sun
to burn blue-tinted prints onto paper,
then stow them

in the shoebox with her second grade
silhouette. Light faded long-pinned memos
on the bulletin board, and she wished
her shadow

that skirted the office walls could be stored
in the box, too.

January 27, 2002

Donna Smith