On the south terraces of the glass palace
That has no bells
My hoe clacks in the bean rows
In the cool of the morning
At her hour
The mourner approaches on her way to the gate
A small old woman an aunt in the world
Without nephews or nieces
Her black straw hat shining like water
Floats back and forth climbing
Along the glass walls of the terraces
Bearing its purple wax rose
We nod as she passes slowly toward the palace
Her soft face with its tiny wattle flushed salmon
I hear her small soles receding
And remember the sound of the snow at night
Brushing the glass towers
In the time of the living
