She was turning the pages of a book.
Outside her window the trees
were weaving a sky of trembling

purples and reds. Voices rose from the pages
like cicadas charting the direction
of wind and the dimension of fields.
Outside her window the leaves
were singing as if they were birds
signaling departure. The pages of her book
burned with all she held
within her heart, children sweeping
through the chapters like comets,
the faces of her forbears surfacing like
coins in newly plowed furrows
in Acquilea. Turning the pages she saw
corridors of rain, how even though
her book was slender it held such mysteries.
She was turning its pages
as dusk fell and larks twittered
sleepily, turning, as the stars
flung out their crystal banners.
She dreamed she was walking
behind her mother in a space so vast,
a mountain so steep, she was afraid,
remembering all that would be erased.