Fire and smoke gutted her world
leaving her house skeleton-like--
blackened and charred
and smelling of stark
and sooty
timber-burned walls,
standing silent
in the cold of winter--
like sentinnels in shambles
of loss and labor;
and of a dusty life,
layered with dormant guilt.

She rues the moments until
each moment is gone,
humming empty tunes--
the way a ring flashes
without a stone.
In broken jars
she cans her meat alone--
her dinner plate is spread
on weatherd boards
and she dines ...
on dry and seedless gourds.

Weaving her cloth with rotten thread
upon a narrow bed she falls asleep
and in her dreams she seeks him:
he is the only one in the night
searching for a light,
though it falls.

Displayed upon a mat of black,
she spots each star
and feels his hands,
motionless and adept touch them all;
he knows the reason for her life--

his knowledge slides
into her veins like atoms
and rustles her dusty soul,
but she is lost,
and wanders through
a flash of blue.


Her eyes snap open without fear.
There is no doubt who led her here,
and he remains the only one.


Gently she turns
toward his humble cry,
and stumbles on a child-like sky.