You are a window
leaning up against a tree,
a door lying at that bottom of a ravine.
You are somewhere
between liquid and solid –
You are buffed,
tanned, tweezed, shaved,
powedered, penciled-in and tinted.
You paint yourself
into a corner, and even
when the paint is dry, refuse to walk out.
You seed out
high places, unprotected,
while I stand below, barely able to watch.
I strain to read
the direction signs you follow,
but they are in a language I no longer know.
Ann Floreen Niedringhaus