She trades dark soil
for sea salt and red clay.
She swears with every breath
that she could never stay.
Hands grip a worn wheel.
Only one glance at the rearview.
She drives away, not yet knowing
her heart’s being cleaved in two.
She’ll learn in time what it takes
to dream that big, to run that far.
Giving up everything she holds
is the only way to touch the stars.
What a sight she is with
sunlight caught in her curls.
Dancing her way across borders,
collecting each ocean’s pearls.
Everyone says it’s the same sky.
But the bells and the birdsong
are different each place she goes.
Achingly beautiful. Each one wrong.
The cities all hold stories,
but none of them are hers.
She hasn’t heard the quiet coo
of a mourning dove in years.
And when she’s close to sailing
off the edge of that crinkled map.
There’s something about the river
That will always call her back.
Josie Smith 