the kind where the leaves hold their breath
and the wind relents, a hush prevailing,
if only for a moment, prolonged
and swollen, like that eternal hour
we’ve all come for, dogged and wise,
in rags, alone.
The woman’s legs are filthy.
I heard she crawled through miles of sludge
to tell me something.
As the wind dies its flash of a death,
and the leaves inhale sharply,
and the world is awaiting, I lean in,
beckon her to show me
the pearl of a choice.
tell me, what shall I do?