at a slow rolling pace
moves the corpulent moon
through the cunning clouds of the night myth
crushing the curse of razor winter
scattering all attachment and devotion to this agile season
she stands adjacent to a still willow tree
listening to the west winds sifting through her hair
a forgotten concept of unfulfilled faith
essential as a catalyst for the inspiration that she will need
to endure a stint on the clicking overgrown rooftop gardens
of black buildings
when any sane person in her place
without her warriors heart
would fall forward and drown in the still grim waters of fear
the tall trees tower around us
but for her we'll wake to sirens.
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