they would conjure delicate potions, these alchemists of language,
if only to feel the slight graze of your hip as you pass their quiet corners —
your sarong twisted by slender fingers, lifted as you walk barefoot into the glen
shadows bend and blend with twirled roots rising above generous soil —
sanctuary nestles inside bright crowns of your laughter
rivers surge, then merge to touch your toes, to sense your sojourn's memories,
to hear murmurs of secrets unveiled by restless slumber
bronzed music of an untamed wilderness, a woman on the edge of unknown,
gathers baskets of foreign fruit — their ripe fragrances tumble from her hands
as lips slowly curl
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