on being apart

mary / alexa woodward
Mary was born in a southern snowstorm in the mountains of North Carolina
Her mother all alone in a little cabin in the woods...
It's a strange thing for a storm like that to blow through in the month of March
but Mary brought a sweet spring breeze...
We spoke of Kierkegård and Harper Lee and films I should see
and she'd read every book that had ever meant anything to me

Mary was a fire, and I am a fire, and you are a fire
I miss your flame

Mary was a preacher once
but she quit preaching so that she could love
and love is all she does these days
she asked what if God is real
what if God needs healing too
if the whole thing hinges on whether or not we could forgive her

The poets, they are a dying breed
in a world of steel and cold concrete
where so much is guns and money and things
When Mary is gone and the cities are ashes
and the empires are mythologies if anything at all

When I am dirt and stars
and you are dirt and stars
and the old soul children learn
to recognize each others pyres

Mary was a fire, and I am a fire, and you are a fire,
I miss your flame.