A place of secrecy:
Solitude like silk, heavy and flowing about me,
Though the spirits whisper and whir, a language of wind fluttering through my hair, the hair of the plants and trees,
Ferns grace my legs, vying for my attention, acknowledgment.
The lake lies, a bowl of liquid sky, mirror of the blue ceiling, the only ladle now the cupped hands of the thirsty, tongues and mouths of the nomad;
Clouds like cotton float and swim, raw from the fields, the calloused hands that placed them there now pointing out shapes, beings.
But mine are the only hands that move here, the only hands that feel here, the only hands that are here.
My hand touches no other but the outstretched hand of the Weeping Willow, gossamer fingers caressing my freckled cheek, my tanned stomach,
The air within my lungs pulsing like ocean waves; the sound soothes me.