Member Rara Avis
At the river's bank, flowers foamed.
Their colors mocked my lonely self-known shadow,
which was naught but suffused smoky light.
Women stooped to pull the pushing blooms,
by their heads; a silver pluck of silence.
Petals peeked from wicker heaping baskets.
I spied white feathers on the current then,
bobbing forlorn nibs. Inkless pens.
Some poet must have dropped them, overtaken.
The women on the bank looked up to see
those feathered pieces floating by and by.
Then heads back down in work, to summer heat.
One woman lost her load within the shade.
The basket spun at once into the shallows.
The river washed her flowers out in line.
The sinking rainbow rushed to meet the pens.
Of haste to ring the twirling, hueing nibs.
As if to write out words to teach the sky.
I watched that color spin against the bend,
then disappear to soften further on.
The silence came back in, the heat of working.
My idle self-made shadow seemed to sway.
The woman's basket wet and dripping, empty.
Nothing more to do, I left them then.