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I wander through my garden late at night.
I've come to refer to this as my Grace Poole time.
And if by chance my neighbors catch a glimpse of me,
in the night blackness,
in the white nightdress,
wild-haired, wild-eyed,
talking to the heavens, talking to myself,
they may indeed mistake me for the madwoman from Jane Eyre,
escaped from the attic.
My bungalow has an attic.
Although Mr. Rochester pretended it was the seamstress Grace Poole who was heard wailing over the moors late at night,
it was really Bertha, his mad wife,
in the night blackness,
in the white nightdress,
wild-haired, wild-eyed,
crying to the heavens, talking to herself,
[but could she talk to herself if her identity was taken from her?]
forever in the attic.
Troubled soul in an attic.
I can wander through my garden late at night.
Grace Poole.
For my soul.
For Bertha's soul.
Pool of Grace.
Dive in.
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