One who felt that seas could chafe
Within the sap of trees, cold without snow,
Windblown without a fair flower to wave
There stood she, stricken, tugged by life
By eyes that moved with other rhythms
Yet could not see; felt a pulse
But could not dance; wanted to be free.
In this, that the hour chimed,
Was her deliberation. Her youth
Was descending stairs, while below
In the fountain lay a cultured pearl:
She reached within the swirling water
To pluck her life back to sanity
And perhaps to choose desire.
—jim sloman, november 18, 1964
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