Eyelash to its lid, lid to its crease — all of it feels ice-bound.
Water, like silk, falls from her eye:
tear-wet threads, long as the wait for dreams and sticking soft
Fragile as unbound feet.
Pearls in a hand
have the quality of transforming that hand —
Until the fingers themselves become moon-hung orchards
Where children sleep,
and dream wild jasmine into their hair.