Rain falls. An erasure is made.
Four lines bend as threads upward.
Wavering in inaudible sounds.
A thicket leans, splays, closes its
density. No horizon here. Only
conversation. The air hums
from whence to where.

Eyes move to an upper window.
An owl passes in slow motion
her heart flies beyond any rim.
Pencils slip from fingers no longer
hers, fall into nothingness.
Spaces widen, await.

In her hand a pod is held day
after day. On an August morning
it relinquishes its colors. She
dips, cannot stop, respects and
keeps the emptied pod. A concrete
form moves on its shelf. What was
in shadow, voices from whence, to here.

Ann Stokes, 1995