Crowded

She stands the protests
of the crowded air,
a cloud of bad
and good intent,
and votes fair truth
in fevered space
before the chance is rent.
She probes and pushes,
tracing spongy edges,
past the lattice of regret,
and breaches anguish thick –
the threat of inner landscapes
on tilting axes stand
upon the ash of artifice,
that will bury or preserve
the guilty and the innocent.
Exhumed at last,
the springboard past
to future prologues,
her words still searching,
still grasping for the clues;
insistent fords the way.
Rummaging the closet minds,
the attic doors to nowhere.
Yet still she stubborn
swings the rescue ropes,
to catch with hope
the weary, ashen but alive,
the deeper dives a memory now,
though lurking dangers in
in the shallows may subvert
and sweep away her work of care.
She is so skilled in crowded air.