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.