Look at her. That’s her portrait. Her eyes are closed. Her smile more enigmatic than the Louvre could contain.

She could be dreaming. She could be recalling the warmth of his arms. She could be remembering the garden. She could be imagining peace and birdsong and the bee-loud glen, of beauty none of us would deny. She could be invoking the spirit that will heal our land, that will lull the bulldozers to sleep, the saws to quit. She could be inviting a sunrise, a lush meadow, a soft path through the pine forest.

Words follow words, they tumble into place, some fall on stone, some nestle into fertile soil.

She could be summoning the rain.