Silently she comes to me
in places that I seldom go
though swift as summer she may be,
midwinter is her afterglow

She whispers of a rebel child
once raised amongst the walking dead
and how that child became the sword
that hangs above the monsters head.

She sings to me of spinning skirts
that twirl and lift to raging storms
while all the raindrops yearned to dance
and freedom reigned, as yet to fall.

She will not speak about the dark,
she pays no mind to sorrow
but in her eyes I see she bears
the weight of all tomorrows.

Then with a whisper leaves me here,
where silence weaves it's lonely way
into this once proud rebel child
who surely soon will have her day.