Incarnate Soul

She speaks three different languages—and studies swamis,
Samurais and spirits. The grapevine speaks of taekwondo;
And few speak of a roadmap and homesick blues. She
Paints on the weekends, and works all week. Her love
Is pavement, as flexible as willow trees. I often peek and

Pry and trespass privacy; but she tugs the soul and chants
A fever. Her persona is interchangeable: that of a heroine.
She seizes the day; and studies fables. Indeed, she’s an
Allegory, even a koan, and deathly sly. I’m somewhat
Nosy; for perfection takes decades; and I admire such craft.

She moves with stealth. I pause and gaze and shift and
Move; and time spoke; and she tested; and I froze. It’s
Good not to move at times. Her soul is Japanese. Her wit
Is German; and she streams the Maori. I hear her in the a.m.
The world is silent; and clumps of grass bleed water. I feel

Her at noon; and Labradors howl and bark. A spring is
Flowing French lemonade; and Africa is carving symbols.
She absorbs the light and cosmic darkness. I watch, adrift—a
Vat of flame; and waft the wind—a blazing rain. She sits,
Agaze, and buffs a sword; and grips a heart, and tugs a cord.