You ran through fields of sunflowers and corn
rustling the dry stalks with nothing
but your light-footed haste. The last of your belongings
thrown near a startled flock of geese.
Now you lean against the green door of a rail car
waiting to board. Razor wire scrawls its signature
along the border; and you reflect on those birds. Like you
they possess only the memory of migration
and a shadow. Yours outlines a slim woman with her hair
loosely tied, a clump of tangled strands
that resembles the roots you saw when pulling
a white flower from the soil in
. The plant Syria
wasn't dying but it seemed pointless to leave
beauty dwindling in a garden embalmed with heat
and ruin. You cut the stem and pressed the petals
between pages of your journal. The leather book
fallen to the bottom of the luggage you abandoned .
Your poems written in graphite, and the pencil
cloaked in the lace hem of a slip. Its gold wood bearing
the bitten rhythm of fear.