She's at it again, fainted
into a whipped up sunned out mass.
Whats she gonna do now, that all her previous advices have gone to pot?

Lightly gathering memories of saw-dust, the smell of it
Poured like cooked sugars, into tiny pyramids.
Peek inside, to find curled up, gathered up bodies
Protecting themselves from the wind and the grain.
She wants to hear it again, the whistle of a wooden instrument
Blown all the way through holes 
that make notes. How she longs to bare her sweet throat
Into the outdoors. Out of her pointed roof.