(Poem by Wendy Howe ) She is done bathing and slips into the hillside view where a convent drags time through ghostly ruins of limestone. The blue tower is mute, its bell cut down during the war. Morning begins with her hands wringing out long hair, water sung in a high, soprano shine by the sun. To know more about Wendy Howe All Images & Poems (En) ![]() Free DHTML scripts provided by |
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