William Conley Lowrance
The doorway is bright. Or—the figure in the doorway is bright. She stands within the frame & gradually the whiteness of her dress—a whiteness unlike any diadem of snow—comes into contrast with the jaundiced light. She shuts the door.
Slowly, she gathers the violets that grow in the corners of the room—twisting the petals together like a ribbon of lips. Then, approaching the bed, she tenderly places the bouquet on a pillow. It is Sunday &—with that in mind- the figure silently removes her dr