Modesty’s Refinement
from a Winter’s Afternoon
The curtains in the bedroom at the front
Were Margaret’s last and accidental gift
To me. Before their hanging day, death’s stunt
Destroyed her. She was sucked right through that rift
Between eternity and time. Their cream
Rests richer than the ivory of tusks
In Serengeti, richer than a dream
In Eastern realms, the pinks of Burmese dusks
Imagined in a long lost empire, greens
From jades the color Chinese poets brush
Across their scrolls. The blues derive from scenes
Like these or Kali breasts that cannot blush.
Her curtains hang in subtleties of tones
That chintz desires from silk exotic zones.
~ Phillip Whidden