The beautiful priestess lingers, her eyes open,
hands closed. In the quiet
I move toward her, probing the shimmer
that rests in the ancient air,
that touches her comb,
her amulet, her pot.
These ordinary attachments,
I know as she knew them,
just for a breath.
Her presence seeps toward me.
Gentle.
She finds me familiar.
We share memories
of how she and I once loved the beloved,
anchored their souls.
Kept them near.
Held them in place, quiet. In reverence.
The young queen waits. Still.
Suspended.
I turn away to leave her, to leave the moment.
I find Buddha
watching.
He catches my eye.
We laugh.
His eyes alive and reaching
a flame beyond memory, his skin golden,
Shining.
His hands lie open.
(Following a visit to the Boston Fine Arts Museum in June, 2013)
