in living green
and singing meadow.
games with sand and spit she polished,
with bright refraction.
Her words blend what she sees and hears-
for the eyes
and for the ears.
and plundered grotto,
but buried things are soon forgotten..
A map is carved upon her brow,
the past begins in here and now.
without a thought,
she’s pushed aside
and hope denied.
For gentle things are soon despised,
they have no place among the tribe.