She is the sunlight, standing by the pool,
In a garden we laced with flowers
And songs, as we walked into ourselves.
Enshrined within a tactile moment,
With no beginning, with no end,
Her brow, lifted gently by rising lotuses,
Receives the sky's deep reverence
As her eyes watch seven golden koi
Swim serenely into provinces of silence.
Then, on the left side, where the heart
Resides, her hand lifts, reluctantly,
As if compelled by lingering strands
Of bitter, ancient winds, now sadly
Come together, taking her
In ways that only harsh things can.
There is always darkness to elide,
Some purging of black light,
After which she is again
Sunlight waiting to be poems.
– Edwin Thumboo