The red soil rises in the garden
Upon a wrought and coiling mist,
Then collects the stems of morning light:
Old Future's endless sift.

These mornings when the flood plains swell
Instil great peace of mind;
Tireless are the crossroads of
Transpiring, morning light.

Set down the blade,
Spread far the grain,
Inhale the rice-fed air;
Now rake the water's fervent edge,
Revealing waves of golden.

The grey lines etch
Her eyes, her mouth and her hips.
A blade makes contact through the fine, stone mist.
Stagnant,
Sanding down the beating end of a hammer,
Trapped shapes appear,
Revealing new ways to approach
Her eyes, her mouth and her hips.