Stillness in the sculpture garden. The Grasshopper Woman screams.

GRASSHOPPER WOMAN

There it is, the way out, away, but is it mine, is this my way, no, stop, the stillness creeping in again, my word, here I am, the tallness of the grasses, up, up, out to the sky, we are reaching, out, beyond, be with me, sweet summer air of memory, when all with ease, when, when, when the buzzing of the body in sunshine, the brightness, bounding, but why, why, why have I not been graced with wings? Would I have run if I had wings? Would I be free of stuckness? Well, well, the grasses, just as tall the grasses, just as small the feet that stomp the way, just as far the fields, the road, just as hard the running, no, not again, the air that moves through me is ceaseless, never again to stone. Stuck. Salt on my lips a sweetness, in memory all things sweet bare soles of summer feet on grasses, sun shine in the eyes of day, in goodness what goodness, my word, the shining seen for miles around, alone, alone I walk towards it, moth to flame, alone, there, beholder of the lantern, not in fear, no, lead me towards you in day that might as well be night, night again, again, still body in the blades of grass, not yet gone to stone, feeling air all around, moving , returned again, to here, to light, to show me the way towards, up, out, to lift the body skywards. Tell me, tell me again, this small body in the tall grasses, which is the way out, what farm what field, what do you have to show me, what can you show of body, no. No. The shuddering stillness, well woven nests, hidden, here, have me, happening, no, now, salt on lips a sweetness, staggering, stop. Away, away from this, if only I were a moving body.

The Grasshopper Woman turns to stone.