Thunder clouds blacken the blue sky.

The flower moon’s dimmed.

Impossible not to see ghosts in the trees.

The branches try to shake them off.

If I could only see what can’t be seen.

The poor dimensions of my sight.

The defiant dead.

Night sky flushed and richly dark.

I’m not crazy—the wind’s strange.

I wish I could illuminate time,

could pull down its edges.

All my dead sisters would return

and I would open my house to them.

I don’t fear what once was good.