It is the wind, she replied
in a voice gentle as a meadow,
the sound of
stories partly told,
of love letters unanswered,
of cries heard and unheard,
of the earth calling her children
to her so their ribs may
be strewn long and moss-covered
across her body.
Tell me a story, I said.
You are a story, she replied.
You are the weaver and the woven,
a child of the dawn, the mystery
and the answer. You are my story,
and I am your dreaming. Without you,
I would not be. Without me, you
would never have been told.
What is that sound? I said.
July 18, 2008