We are walking through a tunnel of trees.
I tell you they are women, soft trunk of their bellies,
bark of their hip. See how they bend one to the other.
Love is water in a bowl. It is possible
to be more than dead,
to watch, to breathe but never live.
Here is the place
where the grass grows up like a grave.
See the line of my form
how we turn in the green.
Red, red clay, body of a bowl--
We are split wide with need.
Hear the leaves, my love; women
walking through trees.
Copyright © 2003 T.E. Ballard