Sue Pine

This is Where my Soul Lives


She met me at the gate.

We walked,

or did we fly?

Given a choice

I’d fly.


She showed me green,

luminescent buds unfurling

and curling


my finger,

my eight-year-old finger.


She showed me blue

and I took it home

to show to you.

You offered a jar.

We weren’t rich,

but I filled it with water

and felt blessed.


She showed me yellow

and my heart swelled.

A bankside of starred suns,

faces on the fell.


She showed me how to look,

how to listen,

how to feel.


She meets me at the gate.

We walk.

My heart swells.

The wind carries her name.