“Whatever may.” you say to me.
Throw up your arms, throw down your knees.

The ships have dashed, the houses blown,
your lover has passed, your baby born unborn.

“It’s out of my hands now.” you say.
You cry. You limp. You bury.

You gather what you can carry.
Head out into the wisps of the moving storm.

“I can make it.” you tell me.
You do not look back. I am proud of you.