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
everywhere
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
and we are far from home
but hopeful
