Her hair fell like leaves, like wheat threshed
like a storm of hummingbirds.
The hair made endless night.
It could have been
a blazing circle to hold her.
It continued to fall as if knowing
that pull from under the earth,
the lunar cascade of oceans,
numb time stuck
on one note of harsh absence
absence not of flesh
but of the holy tongue that says
—Here I am, as you see me—
That tongue was suffocated
in an autumn like no other,
the sound of footsteps muffled
by the hillocks of those leaves.
Pillows burst open in a game gone too far
flung feathers falling
as if the floor were descending
at the same speed. Then
that storm of hummingbirds
became blizzard
white death to color
utter absolute mute
until one bird flew off.
The trill of music rose
from the falling sky.
An ecstatic trail of footsteps
could be seen over the dizzy shaking
of the teapot of earth
and leading away from the blindhouse
a figure in the white whale of day
went dancing off the littered path,
hands raised like cups
shaking out her mane of hair
that rang like a song of daffodils
birthed wildflowers after desert rains
that knew every color
that was not hair
but music
