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