Unveiling

So I have taken up the colors of the sun
in anticipation of her place, slightly insane,
in the ground-breeze beneath the shade of a tree,
where seasons halt and people are free
to talk about oranges or big ideas
undone on canvas, or which madness escaped
the things it most believed
quickest. Shrewd, shucked of fears,
her mind glimmered. Among shade-shapes
on the stone there inscribed: I believe
says Maimonides. Amazed, I stand in disbelief
and watch a thousand commotions seem
suddenly normal, her way of seeing
sideways into the obvious.

Copyright © 2006 Diane Mehta All rights reserved
from The Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission