A night-walker, a edge-stroller, this lady
walks in black, in violent-laced movements,
smooth, deliberate, in a quiet nonchalance,
not from haute couture, but from a boyish
carelessness, like the Peruvian nun in
the garden of England, whose joy covered
thread-bare sleeves. In the cold black of
midnight, this lady waits and waits for the
realization of the growing life within her,
a spiritual time of pregnant fatigue, not
knowing when the birth will occur, but
knowing new life will come. Such is her
faith cradled in the storms of uncertainty
and pain. Her long way destroys her own
rest, as part of her trial, like Psyche, is
to walk and to walk, gathering wool, after
letting the ants help her sort out wheat, peas.
barley, oats and miscellaneous grains.
Dark is the waters she must collect, but
again, animals subject to the gods come,
great eagles of Zeus, hard-eyes on the
dragons of the deep, strong golden talons
grabbing the jar from the frightened one,
who is now getting the point that she
cannot do anything alone. Taking coins
and cakes to Hades, this lady ignores the
death and signs of sadness surrounding her
mind--one flaw mars her desert trip-the
opening of the small, gilded chest of fantasy,
makes her fall asleep, only to be awakened
by Love. But, this is in the future, not the
now, the now of burnt feet and dire thirst.
This lady sees the golden city in the wavering
far distance, almost like Kuwait City in the
glistening light, so she does not mind this path
choosing it, as she knows Love is waiting
somewhere at the far side of the red sands.
Her heart, like the setting sun, illumines only part
of the road, the past, not the future, in faded light
beckons,but she turns away to the present task,
as memory dies for this edge-stroller, this night-walker,
this woman defined by desert days.
