From her hands are
the mountains given,
from her womb gems exiled,
and the furious clouds
into the heavens spewed.
Should the learned aver,
“She is gravely imperiled,”
and must there be doubt,
let all the world
the side of
In the harshness of winter, the hard lessons from father’s hands. But there will be the days of quiet tenderness, gently pressed upon thy furrowed brows, and from the soft assuaging palms of mother spring.
There are odd days in self seclusion I cannot twist my thoughts to suit your ears. I have swum too much the river of aloneness. I must set to the freeing of arms and limbs up into the wide expanses of the universe, and without the grinding, halting commerce of a touch. And in only these moments, of being and yet nothingness, I have found solid honesty.
I held the bleak news in the shadows
while he regaled me with them,
paraded them for me,
the halcyon memories.
But death suddenly becomes his mirror.
I hear it in his changing tone,
his feigned casualness;
says he, “She was younger than me…”
Wide and deep is the mind that it encapsulates the universe, but not her beauty. In other realms there are worlds left barren, and silent chaos rules. And they are smile-less. And they are ocean-less. And they are treeless. And flowerless. And without echoes of children laughing or birds singing. And there is no rain or verdant green garden, only sadness and searing light; for some great god has deemed only her worthy and has poised all delicate beauty beneath her skin.
And in passing, I beheld strangers and provinces with silences for flags. And in each, her internal wranglings and secret politics, the stranger, I would never understand.