The dying afternoon is cold with bands
of clouds that stretch above the open pasture
and into the distance. This fall is different
from all the others, I remember her body
in the floral sweaters, the sweat and heat
between the letters of the story. The living
spiders and trees, bugs and hidden roots
peek from the mud. Her little toes had turned
the color of a walrus, the encyclopedia
is full of stories about her escapades
in another hemisphere; the art, thangka,
golden hair of the Nile. The eternal day
is without explanation, a verse of body
and blood has left the sky misinterpreted.
No comments:
Post a Comment