I cannot write anything, the way my heart tells it
soft in murmurs or echoing loudly as it does
cannot drift the way I’d like, floating freely as dandelion
or milkweed seeds wild in these fields.
I hear words, like arrows piercing in.
I feel shocks and waves that come
to cover me up, disappearing
facing the jangled places head on
letting go of over again
my fears, only transient clouds
and after the washing rains
the birds – singing, flying.