Is a Soul, Is a Girl, Is a Window

Is a Soul, is a Girl, is a Window

Should the sky fall to her thin shoulders

the voice of a covering shirt

rippled like a breeze

responsive to her movement and musculature.

The wavy stay of all those stars seems to say

the world is small, in its place alone.

Range of the eye dips local and the light quickly travels,

the spool of years has woven here as well as anywhere.

Cautious lip turned by the moment,

the breath of something to say.

She feels, I feel, you feel.

To watch it go or drive the show boat

on the broad flat river with its black eddies at night.

Whisper sun up here as anywhere,

She as me as you, good enough,

All said, all weeping, all singing as the silence reigns.

As plates come full and steaming from the restaurant kitchen.

Democratic as water.

Each seed in the low flat flood bottom curves its evolution

of years for such moments, sprouting green as her eyes.

Soul is a girl.

Soul is a window.

Window is a window.

The snow for awhile is white and then water again

black as the moving river.

The hidden impulses of her feelings out reaching

to come on land on sand and with flood renew, bury,

and sketch the next.

No need of priestly interpreters.

We need not and maybe in a strict sense

can not visit this place again.

So many have come through the doors.

looked up from table through the window and

the sun or sky, shaded by cloud,

the moon a soul of its own, placid

pulling all water like time’s tide.

Rolf's Poems and Pictures