and she is there
at the edge of the field

she is gathering flowers
and the sky
surrounds her

we are not lost

we are not forgotten

we are hopeful
and the book of days is empty
and in the town we left behind
the poets have all
been hung

this is the truth

this is the sound of crows
after three months with
no rain and she
is there

she is gathering flowers
and they turn to dust in her
delicate hands and
the poem inside her heart was
never meant to be read

was never
meant to be written
and the dust falls through
her fingers with the slow
grace of angels

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