by Ulrica Hume
“The clouds pass and the rain does its work, and all individual beings flow into their forms.” ~I Ching, the commentaries, The Creative
The seekers find their faces mirrored in a pond.
The vision is of stepping one rung at a time, stepping
quietly over the water, in and out, dancing that gently.
There were leaves scattered on the water,
wounding the sky.
The mute stare of a hero. That reflection.
Why had she wounded him?
He makes his cave of light
and the sound of him seizes some part of the flowers.
She had wanted to say,
"That dance is love, this dance is love,
the whole of the fruit, the bruised fruit Eve held
in her hand.
That same gift."
She wanted to say your wound is where light will go.
She takes a feather from the sky
And dusts his face,
The mountain shows through the cloud,
Dusts his tears with nothing that will touch him,
The marble faces of two Greek ghosts,
Where cloth touches her skin,
His gaze averts to that motion in the water,
like a hope that always came last.
All rights reserved.
This poem was originally published in Poetry Flash, out of Berkeley, CA. I've been thinking of it a lot lately, I don't know why. It's like a dream that sticks.