November 28, 2008
Her eyes are old.
They’ve seen everything, and yet
Her skin is luminous; rain-watered.
She wears the greenery like a gown.
A post-card model, someone to talk about
When the well of words has gone
Her soul is passionate
It burns in back-rooms and gossip
Consuming anything near it
The belt of bibles at her waist
Defends the fire within.
Her voice, loud and twanged,
Rings hymns in the forest;
The mountains rise like steeples.

Her fire betrays the beauty of her presence.

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