shikara

She would like to stand on
middle ground,
a place of safety.
She knows of more places
than just two, glory or anoxia.

She strokes her paddle,
gliding forward on the lake,
oaring her shikara smoothly, softly.
Often silent,
she is never
unaware,
nor thoughtless.

Near the shore,
her searched-for
middle ground
quakes and quivers like a bog
(it seems it often does in olden lands).

She strokes again,
and mutely watches as
a whorl of limpid lake-green water's
carved out by the
heart-shaped paddle of her oar.

Her boat glides on,
into another moment.

Is she purposeless, uncaring, or
unaware?
Nay, no, nahii,
never.
Simply gentle.

Divided from the sun,
she strokes her oar again.

She gazes east, wondering if the sun will rise.
Bitter-cold dark rains could mask its glory.
She turns away, and strokes her oar.

She prays,
though you won't hear it.
Her heart would like to have a middle ground.

© h/m/q, Jan 2006