Stephy Writing
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Sari Women

                                                             Young girl dances on the street,
                    a silk cloth flutters on tired breezes.
                                                             The sad music of the sitar and sari garbed
                    women tell of forbidden loves.
                                                             Young man watches with fire in his dark eyes,
                    hidden beneath an iron turban of caste and tradition.
                                                             His eyes to her eyes, like young swallows
                    falling in the wind.
First Minute
The first minute of the new day.
Where has time separated itself?
No cleave between the moon and sun apparent
in their smooth arches across my world!
How then, the new day?
Spent in reflection, it's first minute.
Two Japanese White-Eyes
2 Japanese White-eyes...
       ... in an orange tree.
Not much larger than the leaves, they flit finch-like...
                                  ... in-between.

One bough bends the faintest bit,
My eye follows to see -- was it the wind?
Or something small and sleek and green.
While playing a game of hide...
                      ... and seek?

Camouflaged, a flash of their paler undersides
Is glimpsed between two orange rinds-
From juicy fruit they now tweet payment for
In tones too soft for human ear,
Which is why my muddy little dog
Sits entranced a bound away-
His tongue agape, his tail a-wag
To see how long the two...
                   ... will stay.
CONT-->
ORIGAMI

She never stopped folding/ She never stopped creasing
Fold crease Fold crease Fold
Folding always came first
Fold crease Fold
Ingenious/Rhythmic
Fold crease Fold
But always the same paper
Fold crease Fold
Soon it gave out
Fold Fold
She couldn't crease it
Fold Fold
Fold
She started to fold herself
Fold crease Fold crease Fold
Until she (Fold) disappeared.
I am an earthless world, amazingly small,
A rainbow reeling, though round, I don't roll.
A misty mirror melding moistly to a wall,
Resembling freedom, I fear a fall.
The wind is my carriage, capriciously I cavort
Wet and winsome
Dying in puff of dry dust or cold,
Caught happily in the hands of an elder elm.

Silken soft is my soundless death.
Invisible shimmer shines, then shakes
Quivering clearly, all sides depart
Soft as the smallest baby's kiss.

Slick water, my blood, my skin
And breather as my body,
now breathe my name.
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