Let her name be written on the shifting air.
Let it roam about the rooms of atmosphere
like a restless ghost in a haunted space.
Let it wander, whispering, ever place to place.
We shall hear it early, when the willows speak
at the crux of springtime, sibilant and weak.
We shall hear it later, fading, far away,
as the oak trees’ shadows rustle on the clay.
We shall hear it latest in the sparrow’s wing
as she ruffs her feathers, without joy or song,
where the falling winter covers all the brake.
Listen to it moving, spend the night awake.
Listen as it softly ruffles on the ground;
start beneath your covers at the slightest sound.
Once her name was written on the shifting air.
Shiver in the darkness: listen, she is here.