She might go back, if she could, to see
sky still stretching west to east.
Rattlesnakes coiled in the bone-dry creek
Did her song go ringing high into heaven
Without being heard in the house?
Loneliness normal then—barely perceived.
She couldn’t go back–not in winter
with cold seeping in like frozen grief.
Echoes wailing beyond eternity.
She shouldn’t go back—not in summer,
bottle flies biting defenseless limbs,
Barley beards sticking to sweating skin
Shall she go back—risk remembering
Innocence and hope, dreams and visions
longing for joy fierce and terrible?