by Ariana Dawnhawk
The words are uncertain,
chancy at best.
The magic doesn’t always come out
the way I want it to.
The paths divide endlessly.
Night comes,
and out of it laughter
wild and knowing,
pouring the stories
the unasked-for gifts-
old voices
old messages
made new
give breath
and flight
until I, too, can laugh.
neosalexandria 