Once she was filled with the familiar

Her hands planted the rootless sprig

with intuition—

so it would grow

Once, in the bright spring of her mind

ran many great thoughts

Once, at times

her hand tamed the trees

Once even her guts were obedient

perhaps they feared her power

But today

her hands are wasted and idle

her eyes burnt sockets

her bright thoughts are buried in a swamp

fading

She distrusts even her feet

They defy her

taking her where she doesn’t want to go

She sits in a corner of quiet

lost in a sea of darkness

emptied of the thought of time

That

eternal pit

Sawr 1380 /  Spring 2001