She poised herself, wearing the quiet power

She poised herself, wearing the quiet power
of mountains. I observe the illustrated queen
in narratives that are conjured by the drunken
poets in the heat. I have descended lower

than before, I am the resplendent knower
dissolved in love. Her belly is the golden
pasture where I rest, where the trees ripen
in the afternoon and thunderstorms flower

in the atmosphere. I get the impression
that love is fleeting, the Sunrise that I hear
in the brief east is slow. Is she illusion?

Is she real? The ambiguity of the years
and vagaries of calendars confuse the station
of prophets. She is the power that I wear.