her haunts still rain the pindrop
turnings of their recesses--
where no wind could wrest her
words to solitude.
her throat raising sounds rapt in
the beginnings of song--the flight
patterns of birds upon a sky's
private screening.
she softly traded hands upon her
throat, her fingertips tickled by
the meaning of everywhere at once.
with everywhere in mind, she took
her time with every little thing, carrying
its note.
now her song is building to the point--
ears may be struck deaf by a silence
that was indeed golden.