Night slipped
Down her throat in soft, meager drops
And she was thirsty.
She walked alone, but
The setting sun's pink shroud (reflected
On the path, reflected
In the trees,
Defined in dark silhouette
On the looking-glass
Puddles in the road)
Knew her name,
And the blue ferns
On her simple dress
Knew the blue of her
Gray eyes.
The cold air whispered
The forest, which burned
Her ears. As she walked,
She remembered:
Silence is fatal,
More than a sudden noise.
She stopped singing.
As her feet grew heavy with wet,
With the mud of November,
She forgot that she was alive
And only watched the stillness
Of the swamps and the ferns and the
Endless trees-
The only thing that moved was her,
And the thorns which caught her dress
Freed her, while the unseen branches
And spiders' webs opened her to the night.
Life is only now.
You can't buy the future by investing
Any number of drawn-out days,
But we can't break free
Of comfort.
She walked forever through the sea of ferns
And was home by dinnertime.