Prickled by the bemoaning of people
she harkens to the woods.

Sticks caressing one another, meaty light
plattering onto the diamond leaves,

a call from a bird’s cone, lit with song,
the hum, the windy drome agape in dust,

soil strumming the roots she decides
to say goodbye, to dump

her closet like a casket. She places
the skeleton of cultured, cured dreams

into the tomb, closes up.
It’s a graceful thump; the black water

fills the depression, and she walks
over the surface of the pond,

spills a litany onto the shimmering roof.
All’s quiet in her world.