Disquiet

When all that she saw was less than she knew

and she was forced to pass by what she yearned to go through;

when all of the stars in the purple-black sky

wished to grant her wish that she might fly;

as the hollow bark of the old canoe

so her soul felt dull and empty too;

Her lips speak words she knows but can't feel;

beauty exists, though somehow less real;

she holds tight to the window—can't and won't fall—

the lament and joy of her voice grow small;

the world is spinning and color going flat

and her music is shrinking—

    and she sits,

            she goes,

                   she is,

                     she loves,

    confined in a tattered canoe.