- Free Article: No
- Contents Category: Poem
- Review Article: No
- Article Title: Who Can Say When Her Time Is?
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This is a song of the white.
The multitude or the pattern.
The rose or the wind.
A woman who begins,
a woman who disappears.
a woman drinking blossom’s shadow.
There’s a taste that becomes
with spring’s movement,
its dreaming is intense. She knows
her secret virtue can be seen in
the water moon that must be (surely)
lying low, somewhere near.
Her body composes its treasures
beyond all the experts in confusion.
Her burdens lightly gather round –
the pure land or fever dreams,
plumes or rejected solutions,
the many-in-one or chaos.
She’s never alone among memories.
What’s supposed to occur now
is incidental to what happens.
Rising from the grass are fences
and clouds, those little brothers
playing games with the instant.
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