What She Said

This soul does not confide in me,
and this room has been dark for so long
that I have forgotten the world beyond it.

I have forgotten the red hills of Georgia
and the tall green pines,
just how blue the November sky
can be, and how cold,

And I have forgotten the way my life looked
before the palette slipped from my hands
and spilled titanium white on the floor
looking so much like Amicalola Falls
in the dead of winter that I could hear
the thunder on the rocks.

But my sister says it has something to do with the smell of October
and rust-red clay that ruins your knees
and a train whistle late at night
on roads no one should travel.

She says it has something to do with robins
and black-capped chickadees
and sharp pennywinkles
coiled tight in her hands
or the smell of black dirt
when you turn the spade for worms.

She says she still lives in the spaces between the trees
On the darkest, longest stretch of interstate sixteen,
And there is no universal sign language for night,
No way to communicate, but she is always coming home.