Tuesday, March 9, 2021


Above Victoria‘s head, the gilded fan,
like a golden bird, graces the wall.
She twirls and twists her long dark hair up in a knot.
It becomes a comb holding up a mantilla to the sky.
We cannot escape the confines of our rooms, 
but she time travels across the universe anyway.
She has a field of virtual stars behind her.
The fan is painted with cypress trees 
or perhaps willow, I can’t tell from this distance.
She tells me There is a bird nests in their branches.
It is a poem referring back to the ancient past,
perhaps by Wu Wei, a deep canyon, 
that faint promise of spring.
She combs and brushes her hair,
a wave, or a river singing of sorrow and hope.
She is like a Chinese princess of olden times
softly singing in the garden, 
while the birds come to listen.


No comments: