Sisters

No darling, we are not of the village.
Roadside with crows, let’s rest in squeezebox
silence. Copper hair, copper skirt,
russet cloak draw audience and with your
blue black counterpoint, we’re our own
earth and sky, hands curled like folded roots.
The clever butterfly turns the eye from
my right palm holding coins, not grass.
He paid me for my weariness. How carefully
he chose the blue cuff. How he makes
my face as lighted blank as the rainbow.
Blind? Beauty tatters. We know. He does not.