A voice calls like an echo over water,
 a twine of words carried by  wind.
How many times have I rented my body
 to a spring breeze, cold from a forest bog
where frog calls run slick as a sultry moon?
Touch is just the tip of feeling. I've given myself
to particle of air and heat-rush, passing
consciousness like a baton into the hands of night.
I've wanted the slow dissolve of forget,
the impassioned formlessness, the uneerie silence,
an arrow of soundless wind shot into emptiness.
Unspoken, words swallow themselves.
Last year's hydrangeas tumble like bicycle spokes:
spring's ghost bustling down a deserted road.  

Esther Sadoff is a teacher and writer from Columbus, Ohio. Her poems have been featured or are forthcoming in Santa Clara Review, Drunk Monkeys, Roanoke Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, Wingless Dreamer, Free State Review, Parhelion Literary Magazine, Passengers Journal, SWWIM, West Trade Review, River Mouth Review, among others. She is also a poetry reader for Passengers Journal.