I know she’ll be the one who comes for me,

and it shouldn’t matter what she says now,

because the ghosts are always tapping me,

and they’ll keep tapping for these forty years

of work I have left, if I’m lucky enough to work that long,

because she knows and everyone knows,

that I’ve already risen from the ground

in silence, without horse hooves, rain, or snow.

She’ll be the one, who in jest, I will hear,

as I once heard the seasons in the trees.

She will have her wings then, not just her bow—

and so what her darts, beneath a silent sea?

When I know she’s the one who’ll come for me.


originally published in How Journal