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.