She is the sky.
She could be a bird,
she could soar so high.
She is the sun.
She could be the moon.
She could be the stars.
She is freedom.
She has no limits,
a shape without form.
I could ask her name,
but she speaks softly.
A sound I can hear
only as silence.
I look where she looks
among the rocks and pools.
But I do not see
what she shows to me.
She wants me to walk
beside her, but I trip
I stumble, unsettled,
unsure in her wake.
Transfixed by her slow
graceful easefulness,
I watch her walking,
but miss where she steps.
She sings a soft song
of belonging, out
to the sky and sea,
as I mumble to the pages
of a tattered notebook.
