While the world sleeps,
she slings her cares across her shoulder
like a long-handled purse and tiptoes into the night.
She has buried her secrets in the bottom of her soul.
No relics of a distant past engraved upon her face,
unspoken hunger drives her to the place
where patches of moss soften the earth
and paradise is called a tree, though she questions
the lingering bitter scent of its leaves.
Every night when the storm screams,
she beseeches the heavens for confidence.
Thunder rips through her ragged bones,
while a low swirling wind invites her to dance.
Her shuddering wanes to gentle swaying.
After all, lightening speaks well of her
even though the stars say nothing at all.
She wonders if the moon is broken
…for it does not shine a path for her.
Still she knows for sure she will never wither
into the grave she once dug for herself.