It is the coolness of the silk
Draped over the face of the woman
Who, after bearing seven children,
Has lost her man
To the girl, twenty years younger,
Twenty times prettier; and bolder, too
Twenty times.
It is the sound of the tree
Falling down in the woods, obscure
And yet crashes so violently,
It kills the pretty little wildflowers
But no one hears a sound.
It is the colour of the summer sky
So far, so pretty, so hot,
So unreachable. It is the colour blue
With dabs of yellow and pink
Harbouring rainclouds that will
Explode into a tempest.
