Strange how beautiful when we are diaphanous,
a bit of ripped muslin…”For the Woman Who Danced
With the Ashes of Her Son” from Washita by Patrick Lane
What makes us strange
is the how
and why of a beautiful
we counted on when
we were young and diaphanous
as first light, a bit
of sun enough to sustain us, a scrap of ripped
blowing in and out of an open bedroom window.
We sipped at each other’s breath
like air plants
and wondered at our nakedness,
how close to the gods
our perfect skin, our lithe limbs,
yet time makes liars of us.
We have grown old, my dear,
but there are times when I am a questing mole,
fierce in my love, loose as anything.
 Lane, Patrick. Washita, p. 24.