She dreads the thought of going back
with memory shredded
into alphabets of silence.
Through the long night of the body,
she weaves a tapestry,
finger tips remembering each stitch,
each stroke a small pulling together
of her entrance into the world, poised
like a bird, shaped
into a moment of wings
in a perfect attention of flight,
of branching roads beneath her,
corridors of wind, tattoos of light,
a sliver of stream finding its path
through rock and earth and clay,
through a universe of seeds
moting the calm summer air
and wonder leaping in recognition.
In a hush of color, she returns
Twisting like a blade
edgewise to the moon's light she
slips through it for one hour,
then all the others.