i.
raven hair, a sacred crown
cascading in thick
torrents down
the nape of her neck.
hunched over, she pours
over the page
reworking each line
until it shines.
i’ve learned to keep quiet
as she writes,
transforming base syntax
into purest gold.
satisfied, she smiles.
and her dark eyes meet mine
from the other side
of the room.
ii.
her joyful hum
has been exchanged
for a clock
methodically ticking
on the far wall.
so much in life gets lost
or stolen
from 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)
