When a River Is Crossed
When a river is crossed,
a mountain of illusion breaks—
eyes smeared with sandalwood and shimmer
touch the rippling wings of birds.
When a river is crossed,
the fear of changing faces rises;
doors are bolted,
and in the murky night
the swarm of insects grows.
So many currents flow upstream—
classical, fertile, full of life—
the home, the yard, the birthing room,
and the graceful moon,
all steeped in the burning
of memory and brilliance.
