You with your reluctant eyes, tilted head and six ounce sleeping arms.
Swaddled up and silent, far off from any and all stars especially that old odd one somehow still dangling up someplace above a stable. You are leaving and moving in a way I can’t see.
You will continue to move that way for a long while, until someone with the strongest, warmest, kindest and most terrifying hands plucks me out of here and into whatever place you are moving. In the music of heralds you will move and I’ll forget all I'm regretting (here and now) in the quiet.
You are a stranger in the quiet.
I know you best when there is music.
I met you in the music, and I expect you to use it, even from up there,
so you may still somehow move me too.
Evey, please move.
Mora lives in and around Toronto, Ontario. Right now she is afraid of anything that feels permanent and tied down. Like names, and words and bios. Slowly, Mora is learning (with poetry) that these things are probably not at all what she thinks.