a kitchen slave tied to the galley amidst
formal rooms upon rooms between floors
half dead among pots and pans
cooking for some nameless man who
ignored me in his big house.
For years I disappeared—search party had given up
until a young girl found me, took me by the hand
and led me out.
Last night I was a rich lady putting on airs
at Neiman Marcus, hair
covered in swathes of
white fabric that showed my pedigree,
customary for well-to-do ladies like myself—
that is, in dreams.
That is, until I looked in the mirror and saw
the disheveled smeared made up face, the aging lines,
panicked I would be seen and
scouring floor to floor for makeup counters that would save me.
This was my dream.
Messages from the underworld of my soul—
pay attention, please!
Not washer woman, not rich woman,
but woman in first light’s chill scrambling
up slick footed moss covered knolls
to revel in maiden recital of dew coated starlings and sparrows.
Woman rapt with awe in amazement’s cloak—
slack jawed, eye struck watching
as sun climbs by slivers
just past mountain’s top.
A woman witness to riotous revelry heralding
birth of first light—all of nature lifting its head to sing in
Not this—slave, drudge or drone of days, I am free!
Not this—above or below, but equal to the breadth and width of my days.
I am this—woman who waits,
if there is a way,
to translate on to page such thinly skinned sacred splendor,
my soul eager, breath-held in rapture as I wait.
Toes dug in mud, stars and soul tangled together, I wait.
Exultant life in sun and starlings and first morning’s light
coursing through my veins,
bleeding on to page.
© 2012 - S. Wolfington