A woman enters the woods
listening for answers
to life’s razors, waiting
for the noose to loosen
beauty to filter through  

she comes to a spring
thickened by rain
near a tree trunk wrapped
with a circle of moss
Leans to imprint
its layers of tenderness  

in her throat
a quiver hatches
a harmonic tilt
swims through her
a murmer of vowels
she mouths                    

~ Found poem composed/modified from words in the poem “The Voice is the Last We Forger to Remember” by Lee Sharkey