I make my way to MacEwen's salient red door
to catch some remnants of her
a faint scent lifting into old familiar skin
her unbendable pronounced lightness absorbed by sky
deliquescent words lost to the sun
her cordless poetry smothered by wind
I float on
forgetting why I came and
become caught in Atwood's wide-brimmed hat
I nestle in
and burrow seeds
surrounded by other flight