from The Wren Notebook (entry #79)

For one thing,
there is a silence.
Not a pure silence
but, if she gets up into the wind,
a melodic silence
only she can hear.

And another thing:
the sorrow
that passes through her eyes
like 10,000 years
of muscle memory,
it disappears
with enough wind.
Just the right wind,
that sweet lift
when she leans into it:
a wind that enables her
to ignore distance,
a wind that allows
her flirtation with Heaven,
a wind that leaves her
with her song,
with her short
and ancient journey.


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