Listening for the Voice that Seldom Speaks
She absorbed the immense tide of burgundy sunset
receding, an orange sun burning the center,
flaring out into the hemlock leaves
as a promise there will be more of this tomorrow.
She stood on a disappearing trail, waiting for a revelation
she expected to receive. But there was nothing —
no kind voice or soothing image or remorse
or fog rising due to the change in temperature.
She waited for clarification.
Then, she dejectedly went back through the spray
of white milkweed parachute-seeds
like spiraling constellations.
She felt emptied for something that did not exist.
She heard it would be different — all who were seeking
would find what they had sought. But all she knew
was the silence; not the patience of waiting and listening.
All movement, all migration, is a result of change —
whether bird flight when weather changes
or people fleeing war — seldom is this choice.
She couldn’t wait any longer; she went over the rise.