The morning rose, yellow and lavender,
Calm and wet.
She turned from her misgiving window,
Paused in her musing doorway,
And passed across her grass lawn
As so many variations of her had done.
Perhaps it was the escort morning birds that
Perhaps she had sufficient preparation at last.
Or perhaps her soul had had enough.
Certain of nothing but the momentum
She carried herself, confident,
Farther than ever before.
For the first time, she asked nothing.
At the first turn, the voices of the birds changed.
She felt herself release from urgency.
She spread herself, relaxed and broadened,
And passed her atoms among the atoms
Of all that was around her.
After that, she heard, truly heard
No voices but her own.
After that, there were no more turns.