she stands ready;
feeling the menacing and chilling wind
as it spirals around her, on her, through her;
lifting, off the moist earth,
all the leaves and twigs that once had branches to cling to;
trees to call home.
Her feet are bare;
the wet soil slides, snake-like, up between her toes,
and her night-gown, once softer than down, once as stark as fresh snow,
is drawn by the wind, and wraps around her form
trying to pull her with it, leaving her
uncomfortably exposed.
From here on the edge
the water is black, deep, still.
The light of the moon,
creeping through the arms of the aching, dying trees
makes the surface serene and unpenetratable.
And she knows that underneath, the silence will be loud enough
to block out the pounding voices in her mind,
to bring her back, out of the darkness.
So in she goes, feet first, and her hands on her heart,
that beats slower as she goes deeper, and the water gets colder.
The silver chain and cross encircling her neck, buoyed by an unseen force,
seeks to pull her up, and out, not realising that as it does so, it merely tightens.
Tearing it off, she nestles herself into the floor of this world, and waits.
A minute later, when she is still alive,
she can feel, in her blood, an overwhelming sense of belonging.
Finally.
And when she breathes, the world breathes with her.
