Day 344

The sky is a tent that covers me,
The broken streets are my friends.
The fields are my neighbors; they wait
for me in the morning when sunlight
awakens them.  Will the charred
fruit trees nourish me?  Will the sea
offer itself as my confessor?
I will tell my story to the tides
and they will bear it away.  I will speak
to the dust of the griefs
crushed into it; my feet, bare
as they are, touch
a multitude of losses
wherever I walk.