We stood at the entrance of a new age. 

Past a garden of all we had ever known,

We found the gate.  

Past what we were meant to know and created to be.

She wrote until her fingers carved groves in the silence and spoiled the blankness before. Then, she turned to each surface left unwrote and sang. The birch trees wept as she tore back the bark to reveal stories beneath. 

I await you in the open grass–

The rolling plains roam my mind

Dark-swept winds ride the horizon–

Damp with the promises you left unanswered