Her fingernails have grown into long yellow keys,
toenails rusted locks that refuse to open.
Her eyes are not windows into her soul,
but gateways to the outside of her circular thinking.
Cobwebs make up her thick woolens, and as she waits
on a black three-legged stool to be chosen,
she pulls a blanket of fog around her shoulders
to keep the dry out.
Weather complains that she is messing with his schedule again.