She’d opened her heart to the music of solitude,and it had come to her.
Near that part of her house
where the tree shades a window, wild grass
and rock harboring salamander or snail, she sits
humming her own mantra, a song recorded in the bones,
and notices how much younger, sensual
she seems in shadow.
The ground is a mirror
casting the siren on desert stone
as the wind combs through her tangling hair
after a morning swim. The shy godlings
drawn to her solitude, her need to dream
in that corner where the sun keeps its distance —
and time sleeps under the eyelid of a leaf.