By the river,
under the sorrow tree,
the universe says
the bones must dance,
and she, who goes out with a net
to catch the spirits,
returns, her hands filled
only with the dark briars
we have hummed
these many years.
The one who sees sorrow
cannot staunch it,
yet by her side
something white
announces itself.
The bones are sucked clean,
the one nearest the heart
becomes a flute,
when you blow,
the dead come
and behind them,
the other bones in a circle
The universe says
loss demands birth
and the two
are lovers.