i.
raven hair a sacred crown
cascading like water
in thick torrents
down the nape of her neck.
from under her shroud
she pours over the page
reworking each line in ink
until it shines
while i’ve learned to keep
silent as she writes,
transforming base syntax
into purest gold.
finally satisfied, she looks up
with dark eyes sparkling
from the other side
of the room.
ii.
her joyful hum as script
was birthed onto paper
has been replaced by a ticking
clock on the wall.
and as most “things” get lost
while others are stolen
from our distracted hands
before we notice they’re gone,
now only her words remain
on bone-white pages
shut against the ravages of time
and bound by faux-leather.
(for Meena Alexander)