Scent of sandalwood:
Does it linger on my scarf
Or are we now one?
I stare at the floor,
Seeing faces in the wood—
Rain, master sculptor!
Bright red hydrangeas
Flank the candle like guardsmen;
Where to when they die?
Robed men meditate
Until the gong calls softly:
“Time to play some golf.”
Backlit by dawn sun,
Her hair a halo of fire …
She rises to go.
About Elizabeth Stein
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