talking in her sleep
as the path of night
returns to the words
we buried in the light
resting
for a moment
on the hilltop
she takes in the valley—
the whole world
in every breath
of early spring
waiting in the rain
until the world stops
and we stop with it
feet among the grass
early in the dawn
before the dew has burned
and there is still some time
to leave the world with a trace