Wrapped in the hush of a swallow Sleeps in the frost of the morning Caught in the grass like a boundary Foxes go slipping and crying Low where the dead leaves are lying Sister, the cry of the hawk rings Threading my ribs with its long wings Pressing the core of the fruit in Tasting the ache in the sweetness Learning the cost of completeness Faintly I hear the clock calling Soft as a bell, free falling Sister, the cry of the hawk rings Threading my ribs with its long wings Shame learns the shape it lives in And he said, he said “She carries the fire inside her Listens to roots when they guide her” Barefoot I ran through the clover Someone was calling me over I should have turned when I heard it Before I learned how to word it She carries the fire inside her Listens to roots when they guide her She carries the fire inside her Listens to roots when they guide her She carries the fire inside her Listens to roots when they guide her
