the diary
knows not of her dreams
or where the future lingers
more than once she’s wondered –
was she meant to live this long

for pages bent to tales behind
they seem the same in telling
another place ~ remit to grace
as midnight to the pines

dancing there –
with gypsy moths
and starlight in her apron
would morning come
to find her on the lawn
soaked with dew –
more times than not
the night – a failing memory
eyelids fluttered opened
pearled with winter frost

silken chords of twisted vine
fingernails forsaken
the world she knows –
so unimpressed
with imitation bloom
brought to blood were scratches
scars define her beauty
arms to reach around her
begged her not to go

berry stains her tender lips –
confession of a lover
before the leaving had to come
she promised him always –
she’d find a way
another day –
to stitch their nights together
would come when shadows
traced the ground
and locust screamed
remember

as quietly –
sometimes to move
except in places secret
forever was the girl who kept their ways
apart from everything to loss
a life without convention
cathedrals – these were built
for she alone

once there came a city boy
might steal her from their garden –
though loving her
was more than verse could prove
she gathered to the forest then
and cried herself to slumber
the stars had fallen –
snowflakes in her hair

her diary mourned –
for what – she didn’t know
pages never understood
the wander in her soul