YOU are not of the Dead. You are of music tremulous. You are of quiet, drifting smoke, and mauve-capped clouds of dawn. I can find glimpses of your lonely face still glamorous In rifts of sky. I see your pagan eyes. You have not gone. The desert's whispered overtones while night winds are distending, Moon shadows on the sand are of your ancient witchery You are of motion, sound. You are of color. Palm trees bending Have but your ways of grace, your gorgeous poise, your ecstasy. Your body is a silver shadowing, a swirl of light. You are moon mist, moon hair. You step like dusk upon the sand. You are more beautiful than quietness of sound at night. I feel a benediction thinking of your patient hands. |