Tara

Sweet poet sister,
lush words, lush life,
lush insight.

City to city
sugared with Atlantic sand.
Sister, do you feel cold
when lake blows ice
and no waves slither
to the shore, but prairie
spreads instead?

Even in the press of crowd
do you hear New York City
hue and cry, Gershwin
spun east on highway wheels?

I don't know how it feels
inside your shoes or eyes,
but we are kinship.

Poetry implies.

Woman is a way of knowing,
faceless and enjoined.