On the cusp of the fourth and fifth worlds
things can feel a little out of whack,
with no more hold than tendrils on barbed wire
but this halcyon has a soft center
when evening pours into the night
out to a shine beyond our ring.
This thing, this Pangea, how do I
put it back, so jigsawed in the rift?
And where’s this bird by time elided?
Looking out, the white sky and I
as something unexpected rushes in.
The stories leave it out
but I believe
it’s this softness, like
the sound of wings, the stunned hush
when a new world’s sighted
and eyes widen as she sings the past
into a pile of ash, ready for the wind.