II.
And then – the twinkling,
the lightness,
made greater by the contrast –
her sharing, wrapping, engaging…
even the oil-man
gazes in amazement
and the walled woodblocks whisper (percussive)
the bow plucks lead her back down
to lift dew from the ground, and in turn scatter
droplets of light
across the floor.
Inward Thought --- Outward Motion
dust on the floor, perhaps from the sprinkling,
yet newly noticed… and painful to the touch,
they must be removed – she scrubs
the stains, she pleads.
Becoming tattered cloud-witch,
begging to be heard.
She has recalled her native tongue – the language
of fire –
and the rain (both within and without)
is confused.
By Anna Diorio
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