It’s the coming back that’s important, she knows

as she presses her way through the cow parsley,

seems to choose a path, though locally 

they all lead this way, in the end: to a building, 

seeming in the light to rise celestial, still, 

and she never can see, over the water,

the ground where its walls’ feet stand. As the flowers

turn their high, white pepper faces to the sun

and the heat bakes and frees the pollen

she is silent, just a girl, heading home.