Sunshine on a Wooden Floor
Women with scarves used their hands
to spin thoughts about wordless pains
things beneath the register of speech
matters of rhythm and tone
couched
in the language of books and reflection
jokes about "shrinking womens crumpet"
tea and the beauty of the room
armoured a little against the hurts attended
felt in the therapist
not by her
bodily
meaninglessness concreted and sharped
there was a crisp eyrie view
trees sketched on watered silk
rolled joyfully towards the fields
like an unfurling rug
a few good paintings told stories
to neutral walls
music stands, a harpsichord, a violin
lounged like poets in residence
and the sun drew a square on the warm wooden floor
framed it
interpreted the light
We still sit in a solar
but no longer fortressed
sewing and spinning and trying to lift our eyes a little
