Songstress
come out into the open; piece together the scars.
Nature
was my living room,
sky
was my glass window,
she
breathed in and out
with
the cloudy wind.
The
firs rustled a melody line—
spruce
needles, my harmony bed,
the
stream, my rhythmic water faucet.
The
company tilted the mist
over
the cedar trees
and
they were cut down, sawed,
and
turned into sheet music.
A
man stood watch
over
the valley;
his
childhood was pieced
together
in scars,
his
only obedience to order was
to
ride on without worldly goods
until
the song—
“I
am not without pain,
I
am not afraid of pain,”
resounded
over the falls.
“I’ve
got your heart in my back pocket,” said sky.
Emily Isaacson
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