Ripeness Is All

Wrapped in a cloak of clouds her passion incites the rain already she knows that her dying form will dance alone on the undulant green hills she will rise into the mist take care to remain aloft even as her desires shrink and slither onto the puddle-plashed earth I have come from among the sycamores to watch her swaying swan song it is a ballet without notes breathed into the western wind like a breeze of tropical air how the rain-forest sky welcomes her first and last sighs how she preserves her poise under the dull pressure of the light that flickers in her red-rimmed eyes Somewhere I have mislaid the music somewhere a funeral dirge floats around her cape of many colors draped across her face as a cloth of resistance to her hissing breath the organ barely touches its low notes the march of mourners queues up behind the black carriage pulled by restless horses who lead the way How she savors the bitter fruit of life that tumbles from the darkened sky a final jette on the green hills and she will hear once more that ripeness is all