The house without windows
sits on a hill
surrounded by meadows,
flowers near the door.
It is surrounded in the shade of summer.
Black smog puffs from its nose.
Perspiration is released from its gutters.
This house lives in solitude.
This house has a latch on its door.

Someday the wind will blow the latch off that door –
and I will be invited inside.
I will paint the walls off – white
and tear a hole big enough to look out
at the dawning of time.




Look through the crack
and you can see her,
a small brown bird-
nothing fancy – with an
insignificant chip
to make herself known.

Or perhaps you will see
the eye of a rail,
hiding in the rushes
or hear the whinny of a sora
out in the wetlands,
letting you know
they are there –
but shyly.

She does not have the glamour
of daily bombast –
simply the effervescence of
doing right,
being true,
being there when
there is the only place to be.

And if someday the tread of swords
lies beneath the plowshares
you will know she has been here-
because as surely as the day
follows the night and
the people have dreams on
freedom’s highway,
She – my sister
and your sister too-
she is there she is there!
And we will miss her, yes,
that is true. But-
there she is
in the crack of history.

RIP Heather Heyer