raise the divine flute to your lips
close your eyes
pause
and then blow.
the note forms within
rising
to subsist on your breath.
slowly you exhale a
small perfect girl,
birthed from your blow.
the note, in which
she is encased,
slips between air;
her slight form
lightly glides to the floor,
like a full green leaf descends
to the foot of her mother tree.
she is curled in a tight ball
as she rests upon folded limbs:
borne into the station to serve.~
`t. imaan tretchicovmanicova
27mar'05
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