Those Old Ones followed me, the quiet girl with the long dark hair, The daughter of a warrior who wouldn’t give up. I wasn’t ready yet, to fling free… - Joy Harjo

I was anything but history. I was the wind.

You're gone now, and I'm still in this predicament called living, Charlie.
I imagine things don't change much when you cross the line.
You're still you.
And I'm still here at the other end of this long, long wave, listening.

Though we have instructions and a map buried in our hearts when we enter this world, nothing quite prepares us for the abrupt shift to the breathing realm.

Every collection of poetry makes a force field of energy. When creating you give yourself over to it. In the fiercest moments of imagination the artist may not know where they are going, the how and when of it, and it doesn't matter. What matters is the process regenerates and meaning shifts at every turn.