Her mind is like a cosmic storm,
Like notes on a page of music,
Like the markings of a wild tiger,
the whimsy of a ladybug,
the exuberance of a symphony,
the still spaces where poets dwell,
their chrysalis hearts light,
lit from within by
Fire like the kiln of the potter,
The glass blower blowing
soul wind into glass,
Synapses firing sparks of
Vital alchemy,
She has a hidden reservoir,
Inside
The chambers of her heart,
Her lover slumbers there,
Then wakes,
The pulse in her veins,
Ever a reminder,
No one truly ever dies,
That we miss their soft, fragile
Bodies,
Their strong arms pulling us
Into an embrace,
The art they create,
The sound of their voice,
Then,
She smiles at the folly
Of buying the Brooklyn Bridge once
because the realtor was so fine,
She throws back her head,
Laughs like stars,
Like purple pansy faces,
Like resistance, the tension between
The lyre of her heart and
Her lovers,
Like a blessing of hearing her own
Heart for the very first time,
Rising,
Rising,
Rising,
The ecstasy of being free.
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