I save my gratitudes

for the final evening ritual

when all the lights are out –

The song struck a chord in me
'Volare,' to fly, in Italian

Solitude 
arrived unbidden
with Sorrow in tow, 
retrieved from her nightly forays
amongst bony trees and sinewy shadows 
barefoot, no buttons or soles, 
just a pale gossamer gown,
holy and haunted
by too many naked dreams.

Calling, calling, women rising
in circles, offering mirrors and reminders —

I see you, I know you are powerful, too.

Cloaked in black, she steps out at twilight. Veiled by thick nocturnal mist. Dark stockings and sturdy boots protrude from beneath the ragged hem. Unnoticed, her power under wraps, until the first gust of wind ruffles her luminous black feathers.