Says and does things,
When she thinks no one can hear,
And confides to a lonely wren;
A clear head braided and bowed.
As hope pushes will
And will pushes shovel
She still vows to move
Snow upon snow
Proving she can set the flowers free.
Now, I see through Modigliani's eyes
Knowing the girl with braids,
Is disguising a wistful poetic charm,
And, realizing his style;
Her life remarkably tragic.
Loraline, a dark outline basks
Against blocks brightened by white
Color signs chiseling the pathway wide,
And deep inside she remembers,
Here on ancestral tasks she treads.
Her feet soon frostbitten,
Hands gloved and snow shoved,
So day and night she'll be able
To walk ahead, beyond the future,
And the past that weighs heavy.
Mumbles for peace,
Loraline outside again
Says and does things
When she thinks
No one can hear.
Her primitive tongue
Creating a spirit
Sung in ancient voices,
She remembers versed ways
Just this once reliving choices.
2River View, 3_3 (Spring 1999)