Like a ghostly
fingerprint left behind
in the ripple
of passing raindrops

She reached toward the sound
of laughter,
yet found the prick of a thorn,
and scarlet was the flower,
with a trickle of blood and song.

Can't hear in this storm.
She loves the thunder,
but it lies hidden,
beneath things once held dear.

Can you fathom,
hear the echo of deep places,
as if a dark sea had swallowed the moon, the night?

Her feet leave no trace in the water.
But passing waves,
whisper soft at her ankles.
Their songs are ancient,
of a blazing light,
shines within eyes that see.

This hour is but a moment,
One jewel
A tiny drop.
Insignificant as a single star,
eternally one with the sky.