Orange is an unfinished pen mark dividing
a white field into fresh territories ripe for blue skies,
thicker rains, and more than one moon watching
the evening fall. A shout formed by letters
written 100 thousand years ahead by a woman
with love and sunsets in her mind, wood blocks
burning slowly black into the deeper times
of night and hot ashes write laughter
rising from a ground that slowly moulds
into a spinning gourd of clay shaped
by the hands of a woman humming
behind a hut, and it unfolds, breaks,
bursts into a poem written orange
as the moons read it all
from the edge
of evening.
