She Hums

Proud and free

She strolls barefoot

Hair askew

And the tea cold.

Her pursuits are rich

Such life giving forces

Canvas

Paper

Woolen threads

Piles of terracotta, and ink stained floorboards

She hums as she sways room to room

In her harem of one

A paradise to the heart, and poet.

Decorated by the jewels of her trade, clanging and chiming to the tiniest of dings,

Wildly she laughs and spins, and mixes

the colors, blur with the sun

and in moments of doubt and self persecution

She touches gently the proofs of her.

Frames of wetted paste, from her art-eye she cast them.

Garments, each stitch from each breath.

Statues and sculptures, lives borne of her hand, the womb she shapes intimately and tight. Orphan children granted a strange and new reincarnation.

Intertwining herself in the green of the leaves upon leaves upon petals upon pots, for this great poet knows the many secrets.

Water. The ingredient so vivid and pale in its bowls, plates, and pitchers. She drinks, and bathes, and washes, rinses, erases, and brightens.

She courageously cooks and presents to Life the spices.

Wandering knowingly, barefoot, to the music of her moment. Pained by loss, and loved by many,

She hums and spins her songs.

The ivory keys now out of tune

The acoustic a broken strum

Noted pages, now browned by dulled stain, still they give proof to her authenticated talents.

Her spin slows and her feet bleed

And her rhythm submits to a blued waltz.

As she sways and she flows, and hums her sweet tune

Her life-stained arms and breasts outreach,

And ache.