I will speak one day

when the world doesn’t bruise my lips,

when my words are not overripe,

when the wasps disperse,

when the fruit is firm.

Then I will speak of gorgeous scars

and rough truths found

at the bottom of dry wells,

and I will speak of slim silent animals

grazing at dusk, and of the rising wind

flinging her willow green hair against the sky.

And I will speak of the quilt of night sewn

by dark hands ancient and terrible,

dark hands that reach through

centuries of rivers,

to grasp and guide my own.