Woven strands of silken hair
     over, under, over, under
Brushed away from face and neck
     over, under, over, under
Like the weaver's warp and weft
     over, under, over, under
Tidiness made beautiful.

My wings aren't strong enough.
This I know.
I am strengthening them,
But they still lack the strength
To lift me above convention.

Dreamers dream up lovers.
I guess poets do, too.
I am luckier than they are.
I didn't dream up you.

You are as real as the dishes,
And bills and taxes, too.
You're an everyday person.
I didn't dream up you.

I'm the luckiest person.
And this is the silliest rhyme.
I'm going back to bed now.
I'll finish another time.

I'm floating downstream in my boat.
I see him at the shore.
"Can I come along?" he asks.
I let him in.
"But you cannot rock the boat," I say.
And you know what?
He doesn't.

The drop without the ocean.
The stop without the motion.
The sight without perceiving.
The loss without the grieving.
The gift without the giving.
The death without the living.

Bedouin woman
How far away you are
I cannot speak your
     language
I do not wear your
     veil
But we wait
     together
In the hallway
For the doctor
In a clinic far from home
Trying, discreetly, to nurse
     our toddlers.

Repetition and boredom,
Like the little shrew
     who painstakingly
     memorizes the
     safest path then
     takes it forever more.
Swiftly
     Blindly
          Mindlessly
Waiting for an obstacle to break the monotony.