The sun emerges from the east
in an ivory, butterfly-sleeved dress.
She walks on waters with feet as
divisible as crows’ wings. Touch her not
for she forgets how long her voice, full of beams,
lingers on shades of brown skin. Her arms sink
in the hills far west, and for a moment
she will dress herself in darkness,
her silence deafening.
Wrote this last night while my husband was asleep and before I cooked some yummy zuccini pasta and baked lemon chicken in a white wine reduction sauce. ‘Sigh, there’s no place like home.