390 Poem by RIC BASTASA

her name is marjorie and she locks herself in a room
for seven days
to make a poem, weaving her dreams, folding an emptly
paper
to make her crane, carefully, folding distances between the seasons
as she gathers wind
and fire
she takes a plant to survive and water it
care, she must care
lest she too dies
she opens a window one day to let her crane fly away
pure
& empty, the crane unfolds its wings as she watches
her years go by
like the way she wants some things to be unclear and undefined
because they are simply meant
to be that way, like the way that i try to confine her
in my frame of mind

she is and she will be, always, pure and then empty.