A small hope held
in the hands of a frightened foe.

Cast off by the frailness
of the widow who weeps —
and she weeps.

Weeps for the girl.
Weeps for the world.
Weeps for the woman who used to be an anchor
in a windy world.

Now a stream that runs through the quiet woods.
An alleyway to the sea.
A backyard nicety.
A flood on Friday.

Bones that bend
and currents that crush.
Spin and spiral.

She succumbs.
Let go.
Oh, doesn’t she know.
She knows.

How the wind bellows.
And fire disintegrates.
What it means to move in ripples and waves.
Tides that turn
and rivers that burn.

Woman —
you are a small fragile thing.
Forgotten.
A bed for leaves and twigs.
A bridge between oceans.

You are the maiden’s voyage.
The siren on the rock.
The ticking of the clock.

And you are never ending.
Time taps and layers lap.
And you are ancient and alive.

A bedrock of brilliance.
A wrath that won’t seize.

Woman —
you are the wind without breeze.