She falls.
Collapses, really, on her knees and begins to pray.
She prays out of fear and desperation.
The grass beneath her is dry and warm.
The day still.
The air fresh and indifferent.
It cares not--the wind that is.
It never has.
Those frivolous molecules that circle the globe
Yielding only long enough to make a dent
Or to go around.
What does it care that she is falling apart?
Who would notice
That her statue-like sitting is only because
The alternative would be out-of-control?
She's digging.
Head bowed.
Warm, salt-brimmed tears fill her eyes,
Then cascade onto the blades of green
Where they bend with the pressure--
Receiving her wet offerings.
Here she begins to mumble her prayers.
[The space around her can almost begin
To understand what she is saying.
Its audacious eavesdropping.]
She uses all her strength to maintain composure.
She wants to beat the ground.
Scream.
Brandish her arms.
Hit something.
Pull at her skin.
Claw at her face.
She doesn't.
She kneels
And prays.
And mumbles.
And cries.
