Cypresses, Bathing

On my way, I come upon them—

A gathering of old women

Soaking their cracked, graying skin,

Their thick bodies sprawling voluptuously:

Knees bent,

Curving out of the water,

Heads thrown back in a tangle of vines and leaves.

I pause a moment,

Waiting to hear their voices echoing with years,

Telling me what I need to know,

But the sun has made them sleepy and secretive;

I hear only their whispered laughter.

They do not trust me;

I am not yet ready to listen.

Source: Poetry (July 1999)