Amused, she stands without the world,
barefoot the sand individually supporting,
each cell working for the greater part of the whole,
Yet as anachronistically individual as time.
Splitting, the wind around her face
etches lines that will take years to come into focus;
each woven flower flies amidst its cloth cage
along the pattern of her summer dress.
Taut, the line seems to bend in its own nylon strength,
pulling lines of impermanence into her palms;
even the long strands of free growing grass
pull on her in ways that she cannot completely see.
Thrashing, her creation flies freely in the ethereal throws
of a force that she may understand better than anyone;
she floats the red square amongst the wind that sweeps
through her and, in doing so, feels the pull of God.