Word of Mouth

She is sick of walking alone in this world,
weighed by her rucksack of guilt
and ice-bitten nights with no moon.

Had Pandora ever been a child
she might warm herself with reminders
of playing in sun-washed fields,

running through the cloud of yarrow and meadow rue.
Instead her story began with a trap,
left her a loud echo of lament.

The myth does not indulge in epilogue
or say whether she drowned in the flood
when gods punished men for acting like gods.

Cast onto some stone-strewn shore,
she dried out, crawled away with only her name
and the tale of her transgression.

It is time to shun the hush,
speak for herself with a voice as soft
as down thistle on the wind.