She wandered through the sycamore that night
weaving withered garlands through her hair
like tiers of brittle halos in the light
which hung their mourning buds in the evening air.
The grove illumined and stirred when she approached,
parting its pathways to let her wander in
as if to say, 'please, let us not encroach
upon the grieving you have yet to begin.'
No briar caught her dress, no rock her heel,
no owl breathed, for they already knew
the midnight living were the ones to feel
the torment of breezes, the agony of the dew.
Her bare feet rooted as if they had no choice,
and she lifted her ear, straining to hear his voice.
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