Gypsies twirl
and land softly in my arms
like shocks of wheat
to be gathered
and harvested
and distributed
like the pure love they are.
Mothers and daughters and lovers,
those gypsies,
sons and fathers and dancers,
twirl like ribbons on the wind
and catch themselves
in my fingertips
where I comb through their hair
and whisper sweet words of solace
because I am the earth
and I am the water
and I am the lifefire
to keep them safe within me.
So when gypsies twirl
and the tamoburine hits the floor
with a stunted thud,
I extended a hand and a bosom.

03/29/2002

Posted on 03/29/2002
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