she wonders if scraping the callouses from her feet
can rid the dead, hardened parts of life as well
what kind of tool can gouge the rough edges
where does one sit for this performance
where there is no sun to warm fingers and toes
when the light has yet to breech the eastern horizon
must she rise to gather the chaff?
strewn to the side, the wheat divided and shared
she feels the temperament of the world
it rumbles through her feet, becomes her hair, makes her lean and sway
one day she will come for the pieces left
all the fallen, forgotten, jagged pieces
gathered by someone already, picked clean to dust
she knows then it will be time
time to know that rumbling is song and she sways
like they did before her, like they always did.