Which will pitch into the night swollen with darkness and smelling of worth; which will run like the rivers to a place of respect and love, fading as car horns in a cool grey afternoon and then rise like smoke in distinct praise of the atmosphere…………
Which will stare into the warm auburn tea, which will translate smoke into message, and raise the cloud cover and put out the paper in the morning with breakfast on it.
Which will migrate to the place where everything blends like colors run amok- this place that is understood only by people with a vibrant capacity for unreality, for chaos, for nature – mostly women – this place where the source of human power was born.
Which will come to me at my feet with tongues hanging out of their passive mouths, their eyes agape with the thought of another day – in heaven. Which will stay aborted.
Which will step by step mark the beat of branches torn from their limbs and thrown into the cold, wet detritus smelling of musk and searching in the passes for worms and insects. Which will stand in for any challenge with teeth whitened by white strips and refuse to pay for their share.
Which ever lasted together, they were upstairs before the last call for dinner – the bell chimed in the hard hands of the nun.
