Stardust and Songs

In a quiet room off a grey hall,
the heavy wooden door is closed,
and the bed is not empty.
She is not there.

In a silent room full of windows
the city crawls under street lamps
and the river slides by through night
She is not there.

In a little house with her beloveds
the blankets pulled close about their ears
and the orange leaves pulled aground by rain
She is not there.

In a native forest where hides the moon
the ancient trees gripping the mountain
and the lake which drowns all its secrets
She is not there.

In a farmer's field alighted by bonfire
the smoking logs and the friends silhouetted
and crackling flames and the lowing cows.
She is not there.

She is the heart that beats and the ears that hear.
She is the pulse of the streets and the flow of the river.
She is the house that shields and the rains that tear.
She is the trees that grip and the water that overwhelms.
She is the fire that cleanses and friends who love.
And she is fearfully and wonderfully made of 
Stardust and Songs.

Jennifer D. Behnke, October 11, 2012