She stands at the door,
watching the monsoon rains
come rushing down to earth,
thick ropes descending from laden clouds.
As she stares, the ropes turn silver,
become the bars of a cage she cannot escape.
Now a rare ray of sun pierces through,
reaches the downpour and
the bars sparkle with a million diamonds.
All at once, she is a princess,
in the house of a wealthy maharajah,
not a prisoner but an honored guest,
bestowed with gifts of precious gems.
She smiles as she watches the sun,
glinting onto the rain. She is lost
in a mirage of days gone by.
She breathes in the scents
of the wet red earth and of those
imagined exotic perfumes.
Alas the clouds once again throw
their heavy grey cowls over the sun,
and the fire of diamonds is extinguished.
She looks down at her feet,
standing in the flood water,
which crawls into the house,
Dampening her hem.
She turns back to her chores inside
And the old woman who watches that
She does not stray beyond the threshold
Marie Sheard