And here I am on the road not taken
Such strange inks adorn these pages of dense fiber
Cottons milled by a barefoot princess
Toeing the loom’s treadle with a supple ankle
Her every step accompanied by wind chimes
Once disturbed by warmer breeze than now
She turns her head to show a long braid
Of intricate knots as if hieroglyphic
On the wall where firelight casts amorphous shadow
Rise then fall, I’m an ancient Mayan again
Till she looks away, moves her head slowly
At pace with a wheel that turns and turns and turns . . .

Chagall 2015

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