Daughter of the winds, she moves
                           swiftly:
A golden flower swaying in darkness,
Child of the rhythmic beat
Of an auditory breeze.
Fanciful and frantic,
     She is air
     Heated by the sun,
     Cooled by the forest,
And sent mingling,
         mixing
In the tumult of her own emotions
Across the night.
The storm moves her,
     Permeates her,
     Lifts her soul and steals it,
     Leaves her helpless in her pleasure,
Stolen and possessed.
Daughter of the winds, she moves
     In that rushing gale of rhythmic sound,
     In the night,
     Beating to her heartbeat, time.
 

8/9/80

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