voice
the cool swirl of cream
in the rich brown espresso volcano
eyes
the calm tree-shadow at an afternoon waterhole
hair
the silvered mist-strands binding
the last tatters of night to the grassland
smile
a broad curve of ivory, proud and wise,
with lazy laughter tumbling into the shimmer
of midday heat
heart
the sweet blood of night in the drumming of dancing
feet circling an evening fire
blood
the slow rivers twining, strong and sure
through my grandmother
africa
Weaver
The nimble child of morning
was casting her net of woven nothingness
straining the air for sustenance
with a web the wind could stir
but could not catch,
when I came.
Moving in the early morning shadow of a past dream
I twined a single hair of mine in her domain.
Perhaps I thought to share her beauty.
Perhaps I never thought.
It hung there like a question
coarse and crude beside her work.
She folded her nets back into herself,
cast away the strange fruit
that human whim had yielded,
ascended a wisp of nothing
into the sky.
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