We shall see
Speak, tell me of your art, sing Homeric of adventures of yourself or others
I am at ease, my composure complete, content to sit, to while centuries away
Come at me in heat, breathless, honoring, desiring, sing Sappho songs of lovers
I have tired now, my brow in fine drawn arch, my shoulder rises, I am unswayed.
Millennia of echoes spread across my delicately laced light-shy linen bed
Overlapping, patient waves, winds, stones, rain, and tears onto waters
Others in worship have now worn patterns across my boudoir floors
Recline, collect yourself, there is no coup to count, rest your ardor heated head.
© Amanda 2012
Half lids of smoke cloud over grey suns