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As though breathing the summer's setting sun  
into her soul made her quake with new meaning,  
her strides became longer,  
more purposeful,
determined.   
Beams of light emit from her pores; 
unbelieved stories of her childhood
hang heavy in the air.   
Seeking to purge from her memory  
the skeletons hidden beyond the doorway  
she braced herself to shovel past  
make believe snares
trap doors and
dragons standing in her way.  
She looked up into the roofless sanctuary,  
then peered through the windowless panes
at  overgrown grass  
mimicking her childhood tales; 
swaying in the island breeze  
waiting for someone to embrace them  
or  cut them down  
again.   
"Tread softly, into the unknown my love,"  
mama would say to her,  
"Your tongue may very well become the pillow for your tombstone".