Wind unmakes the mountains,
caresses boulders until they are dust.

A loose pebble tumbles away.
A pine bends towards the valley floor.
Footprints vanish one by one,
and then the trail fades too.

I deceive myself
that the next few storm-tossed grains
will reveal your fate.

I still listen for your voice at night,
half-expecting you to crash through the door,
though hope has long since yielded
to the harmless sort of daydream
that an aching heart shelters
to keep itself beating.

You were my only girl.

I see your little fists
planted upon your hips,
explaining the world to me
with impossible certainty,
until I almost believed
it should all work that way.

Grief is a pressure
that builds
with no promise of rain.

Sometimes I climb heavenward
until the world is a blur.

The Sky never tells me
that you are coming home.

It only lingers beneath my wings
long enough
that I can bear the descent


Penned by my hand on the 4th of Mayan, in the year 1008 AF.