upon the pass, where Cassandra had walked so long, alone
rocks and grit pressed up into the soles of her feet
(it became painful to walk, and she walked)
weary and lonesome, peering into the starless night
she had continued to walk and she was walking to you
she clutched her arrows and water sticks and she walked
she lie down at night in the damp earth and asked the moon for you
in the morning, she rose and walked again, then again
half-blind and cold, Cassandra came around the mountain to a pond
where you had walked and brought the sun and waited for her,
lilies clutched, like beacons, in your hand.
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mary june brown 