Does a breeze whisper in that hair?
Still?
Does it call attention to darkly tamed
locks,
threaten
to release them back into natural fury?
Does a raindrop crawl slowly down
the side of that face?
Still? Does it catch for a moment on that lash and
fall into
the
arrival of that child’s smile dimple?
Does summer’s heat run a salty drop
down that back?
Still? Does it tease that ivory spinal stretch,
bring a shrug of
that
silked shoulder in response to an unseen caress?
Does a winter snowflake cling to
the toe of that boot?
Still? Does it twinkle coming in from the cold,
dying
at
those feet, calling attention to insulated beauty?
Does the sun spill into, reflect
out of, those eyes?
Still?
Does it proclaim, telling unkept secrets, showing to all
how
brightly blue can burn?
Does the moon, the shallow moon
know?
Still? No, I will not ask. I know. I know that moon
and
she knows. She knows she at night must borrow
that radiance,
that
satin sheen that renders her stolen sun serene.
Does that sigh, that tear, or that touch
recall? Does that life or that soul,
or
that shimmering night, remember? Still?
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