Katherine Harris

The secret between us is an elegy. Holding my palms to the grey-green window the still-leafless branches span my life line, my line of fate, the arboreal airways of my lungs. A dead-wind screams beyond the glass, tossing the trees. Maybe the howl will breathe the land clean and revive us, like the poppy-snow of Oz. Spring starlings have not yet arrived on their waves of murmuration. Black opal oracles with the stars prophesied on their wings. Answers and nestled hearts for the end of the plague, on the pain of growing a wing. The night-pond is solitary, a nightingale singing to the northern lights, creating a sound circle. In a dream, my mother’s face, eyes open, silent, mute.

— Title after artwork by June Leaf