Ioc

She has great patience.
Grace, too.
Her tempo quietly
etches arcs on the
blackest velvet.

She hides her face,
She takes her place,
at a slow, even pace.

Arc gently over Kasman,
Over mines and battles,
and cities and ships,
over rough lands
and faerie prattle
chasing startips.

Your ebb sets the
tempo for the sea.
Quintessent smiling
visage of wondrous hues
that mortals beguiling
call magentas and blues.
Yours is a forever
indescribable subtly
clever tint.

Circa Deoch 9
((February 11, 2000))

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