an empty house
betrays its fullness
flashed upon closed windows
in the dust dancing
she finds her hands
see her moving them
see her slicing
with all of her might
propelled
by the lowest note of thunder
a murmur
deeper than a secret
whispering strength
to cut through wreckage
move walls and raise roofs
but only as she curls beneath a loving arm disembodied
does she find the door
to the garden
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