She has walked these roads before,

these swollen pasturelands of life lived lush.

She still sees footprints from the last pass

through grass like cotton under calloused feet.

 

This time around she’ll not forget

to breathe, to sigh and, with the overflow

of air-filled moments sing the songs

even of the crows, nasty and loud, but present.

 

Severed, now, from her the times freshly gone

where dislocated streams interlocked their

watered journeys, cutting banks to spell

healing words, seen only from above.

 

The crows’ din, songs gruff, bloated and stifling

are replaced by her solitary voice,

wavering with quavers birthed in silence,

the symphony of her own breath.

 

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