This pedlar in impatient thoughts
travels light but burrows down, heavily
down, and down and down again;
to the parsonage of promise, wall-papered
in the sweat of dreams.
The days, carefully patented against
her own times, roll out
like dried tobacco leaves, the inhalation of
a promise, made, kept,
broken, and made again.
Pencil sketch clouds smudge
a looming graphite across the vast skin of sky.
The forest, sotta voce, stock still, looks
nowhere but down to the nourishing dirt,
kneels up to the humming heavens.
And, for all this cantabile chorus,
throats out a steely enervation,
where none but she can hear the silent praise.
She grapples in morning still
and shivering, licked up from bowls
of her own gratitude, there
to shimmer hints of the new,