She held the weight of syllables, turning
each sound over, delicate as eggshell, naming
not a thing, but a life bundled softly, cradled
in the valley of waiting breath, her choice.
The neighbours spoke of meanings, old roots,
borrowed tones from the hymn of family,
but she sought the fleeting, the feathered,
something carried on wind, light and sheer.
When she whispered \"Dole,\" the hum lingered,
like a note half-unsung, spare yet whole,
a name pared to bone, pure simplicity,
that held curves of sorrow and solace alike.
\"Dole,\" she said again, as if testing earth,
the grain of it in her mouth like rain,
how it softened, yet bore steady weight,
as though meant to root deep, to last.