Coy cushion of cloud slips into the garden, tucks across thorns, spares the eyes that peer from indoors the truth of roses and what they endure. Summer Solstice Suite of seven days, each shorter than the last. For a week every time the earth revolves the heart grows hope and opens. Ribbons tied in bows at Beltaine loosen into loops of green and crimson. Flaxen hair hangs jumbled.
Buttons slip through button holes.
Aprons fall away. Cotton dresses swing and flutter, cover then expose the ankles, calves and knees. The sun begins to set at last. The hat comes off, falls f rom the hand as long light turns in grace to face its own undoing. Aborigine She painted forty-two circles, each enclosing a dot, in a loop around her ankle, as in the dream.