O Devayani, hear the silence. Tom was not to be found. Crying, she looked in boats she gazed across the sea, toward foreign lands. O sweet, Devayani, think not of love today. Winter has come, the naked boughs have given up their colors of scarlet and green.
Refreshment lies at the end of the tongue, and the stratified hum of memory.
Things that have been, and gloriously gone, are seen only through glass, only through the gem of solitude's gentle grace, where the bones go slow, the tips of the fingers settle for sight's old role, and the days fall like spring's last fragrant petal. The royal family of Bavaria preserves the hearts of its lineage in jars. Exquisitely capped in high, niched church rings. The Incas kept the skins of their great kings, straw stuffed for festivals, swaying from bars. With her bobbing head held high to catch the wind in its pure unscented dash across the land, choosing her life so wet, wild, yellow, prototype for the sun.