Above the tree line of the soul,
Where air is thin and minds can float,
She sparks her memory, speaks her loss.
She moves through pastures draped in blooms.
And there she lives her ghostly life,
She watches shadows cast on clouds
Which gather on the valley floor.
She knows the turn and flow of things.
But further up, beyond her gaze,
The bells of cattle ring the peaks,
The gentians stain the petaled sky,
The crystals carve the rainbow’s curve.
Her soul awaits the season’s change,
With buttermilk and waterfalls.