(Poem by Wendy Howe )
Are we to paint what's on the face, what's inside the face, or what's behind it?
Moments melt into morning's light
and your countenance softening
You watch this city sprawl
into a spring day. Blossoms
enlarge vine and branch. Birds mob
the blue air slowly unwinding
into a bridge of wings.
In a different way
your hands untwist long hair
that had been rolled carefully
inward. Its density
shimmers in the sunshine
as you untangle certain strands
and personal scenes
from Iran. On a balcony like this
you would stand observing
minarets that guarded the sea
and think of those white birds
who never move, their tall necks
stretched skyward, evoking a palpable sense
of unease. On a morning like this
(only in Autumn) you viewed the garden.
Pomegranates were swollen-red,
inflaming the trees. Your body absorbed
their fragrance, vigilant candle
who knew it would soon be time
to extinguish fear and leave.
To know more about this poem, about Wendy Howe
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