dry grass prickles my feet,
9 years old ignorant toward
the feeling that paralyzes my heart,
creates a lump in my throat-
close my eyes and cover my ears
(hear no evil)
I can pretend I don't actually know
she's dying-
I sit criss-crossed in the dirt-
a crooked wind bends the grains,
shivers the skeleton inside my skin.
going against my inner fear
I call to her,
is she able to hear me
above the sounds of her dying hymns.
then I come to her,
as if it were a dream-
she looks far beyond her years,
though I know her well;
I know of her light,
I know of her faith,
but I know not of her death.
too young to understand,
an indifference-
she walks to meet God
in her garden, and I follow
(too closely)
she says she needs time
alone to write her thoughts-
and I wonder if I'm in them.