tomorrow they will come

she's impatient
waiting
for the ill to come through
the door.
so she paints a table,
using
a short brush,
with long strokes of white.
watching it
glisten, then dry
in the light. she
arranges books, her desk,
puts a vase
of flowers on the sill.
she brushes her hair
in a mirror, then
looks out
the window
as the sky fades from
blue
into darkness.
tomorrow they will come.