The curtain hugs the sill,
Five petals sleep on the wood,
Eyes trace the path of metalwork,
Where rain slips from the clouds,
To puddles that lay with open hands,
Glimpses of that gone away...
Life in the foothills of time,
Where arms hugged knees,
Into recess of this mind…
Notes fly from speech into a tune,
An arched back of new womanhood,
She bellows, a song of that river.
The one fostered by trees and insects,
Pebbles shimmer in her curves,
Wandering in the midst of valleys,
Joining a mass of waves that,
Dance with the horizon's children.
Touching a shore where our feet,
Mark deeper than the seabed,
Leaving breathless fish, choking turtles,
Thirsty creatures crawling around…
She bends forcefully trying to beat,
The strong tornado of machines,
Her drapes are shredded in travel.
~ The End ~
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