Migration

The crescent moon cradles Venus,

you who have flown south south-east;

I wave a scarf at the horizon

where you disappeared.

The flute quiets the transplanted soul

while the owls are near tonight.

You abandoned your past

like coils of fishing net,

torn beyond mending.

Come back and pull me close.

Let your eyelids close me into your thoughts.

I will learn to map you and find my way

past old voices that inhabit your body.

FEWalls