A woman under a blow-ball parasol
in the same sunny mantle wrapped
reads a book, and the book, a cup
of shine, pours out on her face
a drop of amiable smile that’s laid
like a gemstone held inside a ring
in that daytime gold and the black
of her locks and blouse as if she too
were a strange new humble-bee
which but gardens common flout
but, instead of the scented flowers,
she is riveted to letters of her now
in which, shaded by the parasol,
her soul is but a pas or one step off.
