i. Grace.
When it rains, she collects water in
wooden bowls. Makes soup with
dandelion greens. Down the road,
a boysenberry tree stains the
neighborhood. She gathers the fruit,
barefoot. Her fingers remember
green things.
ii. Beauty.
Inside, she unties string, weaves straw
into gold. She plaits forgiveness into
her roots and drinks moon in her
mother's china. Her laughter
crystallizes the air. When she moves,
it shatters. She slips from the room,
running from the remnants.
iii. Truth.
They had a sister with a voice full
of sun. In the morning, her words
sprouted leaves. She gave the sprouts to
anyone who asked, forgetting people
lost earth. Weeds swelled between
sentences. Her hair faded. She fractured
on thorns. In her hand was a seed.
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