Megan E. Coxe
The traveler re-shoulders her pack,
now lighter after the three day rendezvous
with night and the sunlit forest.
Under the celestial ceiling she sighs.
This bag, a satchel of rubbish and gold
from her Zion march
She tosses it slightly to the left of her inebriated wing.
Drunken echoes whirling about her,
she begins anew.