Xena

What makes a soul atone, for the Cormorants who bared, their cry across water moan, diving towards the river, black scissors out of nowhere, eyes only for silver fins, our Sunday trips are broken, you ask who really cares, remember hard words spoken, how we need to live, why we need to share, the memories of her kiss, who will tend her bones, on tides that flow and turn, wash us with her stories, how beautiful their wings, angels flashing in the air, her laughter in the wind, lower me here.