—she sits alone, never 

reaches out to the people 

around her—she would 

rather suffer than speak up 

 

—she never throws anything away 

(she keeps treasures in her room, 

and her coat pockets are always full of rocks) 

 

—she grows tired with herself. 

she throws out the papers, 

the faded receipts 

 

—she learns to live life 

from her own mind. she packs 

it inside her suitcase and 

falls asleep to the church 

bells outside her window 

 

—she falls in love with the world. 

it is hers, she learns 

 

—she likes to put flowers 

on the windowsill, like 

the stained glass she’s seen, 

the mosaics in long abbey halls 

filled with marble and silk and 

the graves of old poets and monarchs 

 

—she leaves her world, 

the one she’s known for years, 

to visit the sea. it is 

where she becomes whole 

 

—she does not wait

for her future to come. 

it is already here. and it

is hers for the taking.