Arise

She stands alone in a field,
tan prairie grass tinged with
red stretching to the rolling hills.
In one hand, a seed.
In the other, an ocean.
Her feet, bare, baked into
the soil, loaves of bread
rising from the earth,
cresting in yeasty domes. 

If the wind is a lullaby,
she is its melody,
quiet and haunting,
unsung notes echoing
up and down the spine,
humming to the tune of
no-one’s-listening. 

She’s the silence in between,
the tune before memory,
the whisper only heard
in the marrow of bones.