The storm was my mother, the wind was her hair
And she held me and told me she'd always be there
But her hands went right through me, I was made of the light
That leaks from a crack in the floor of the night
So I gathered my pieces, a handful of glow
And I poured myself out where the four directions go
North ate my voice, South took my skin
East blew my thoughts, and West tucked them in
And what was left over, a thimble of want
Rolled down a hill to a previously dead font
Where the water was wine and the wine was just water
I knelt down to drink and became someone's daughter
Or someone's son maybe, or something between
Just a shape in the shape of a place I had been
Then the shape started walking, it walked on its own
Past the fields where the future's sad harvest was grown
It walked to a door in the side of a hill
That was perfectly still and perfectly still
And it opened the door and it walked right on through
And I watched it go, knowing that it watched me too
...