When the familiar voice stops and the storytelling ends, every instant is a sign.
The beards on the high clouds blown by a summer wind tell me where to go.
I follow the nodding heads of poppies, know where I’ve been by the angle of grass.
I could be that long young man laying on his back counting stars.
Or that old woman, neck bent like a squash, who dies while waiting for the bus.
I could see me, just as I am, beyond words.
- Jane Flint