Mansuetude
Attentive as the movelessness of dusk,
The immobililty of midnight on
A temple pond, as still as silk-caught musk
Inside a drawer of sandalwood at dawn,
She waited. She expected on her knees
Some sight of Him, some smell, a holy tone—
Perhaps a vowel—from his lips, a breeze
Of assignation from his throat. Alone
She waited, quiet as a petal seeks
The moon, a prophetess her angeled moan.
Yet in the skyless darkness no one speaks.
..As silent as a fatal jewel in
….Dawn’s diadem, she brooded on His sin.