Today there is only silence,
birdsong, the feathered sounds
of souls slipping from life.

She gathers things to heal:
the morning’s meadowsweet upheaval
of peach blossoms bursting into fireworks,
a branch of oak-gnarled grief,
shards of ruby from a shattered heart.

As the edge of sanity
descends into flame,
she pours holy water
from a hollow log.

Holding sprays of blue vervain
and blessed thistle,
she burns a wish

but its smoke
carves her name
in the sky.