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Master of the Mask

Master of the Mask Though I sit in contemplation-- Calm, crossed legs, Upturned palms on my knees-- A light rippling wind flips my hair Forward, across my brow. A slight disturbance, an echo of The universe touching me gently, A spirit of a breeze. My expression, it belies the truth-- A grimace that does not surface. Master of the mask. Reflective orbs, uncreased skin, Slight upturned lips... Who would guess? Inside brews a hurricane. Eyes open to the wind, Hands lift to brush the hair away. Gentle reminder of a raging storm That cannot be tamed, A rising force of nature. Dena L. Moore March 2, 2002
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