By Lee Kiblinger

It’s not that I wish 

to be whisked back to days—

when weavings spread long

their hues on the tables 

or graced a flush-creaked floor

aromas of markets

still mounted through musts 

of woman’s meticulous chore 

or lavish blue linens 

and elegant silks

eulogized the feminine form  

or powers of daybreak

burnished the glass 

and startled the usual soul—

it’s the triangular quiet

of her back turned against 

the lure of the uncharted place

the glimpse into shadows 

with lips of content 

adorning her movements of grace

the turn from the pearls

attempting to tarnish

the repose of a timeless calm.

It’s weary-worked hands 

that lift water to drink 

and stretch for the opening of dawn—

About the Author

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