The one with the soul in her bright eyes
simmered the solace of nursery green.

She was of three dispositions
like the big tree standing with

Three children climbing or
falling. Rachel raged on the rooftops:

Only a small part of her tragedy.
A woman and her child are one.

A woman without her child and Rachel are one.
I do not know which to prefer the knife

Of her wit or the satin of her smile.
Rachel’s silence or her laughter.

Mimosa blossoms framed
the window with their soft

Pink tinctures.The phantom of
Rachel paced to and fro.

Her kaleidoscopic moods
traced in those shapes

A cryptic cause. Oh, you
archeologists of far shores,

Why do you imagine famous digs?
Do you not see how Rachel’s mystery

Is buried unseen and deep in the lives
Of all the souls who knew her?

I recall cutting remarks
And stunning insights;

But I know, Rachel is involved
in what I know.

When Rachel flew out of sight,
she left us breathless with wanting.

At the vision of Rachel untethered
from this veil of tears even

The philosophers of San Jose
would throw down their premises.

One of her sisters rode up, down
the streets of San Francisco.

Another walked in meadows
under Colorado mountains.

Another lived to protect
orphans and redwoods.

Another reinvented clothes
once treasured, then cast off.

And yet another taught rhythms
old as heartbeats and sang truth

In songs others wouldn’t dare.
At times, a sense seized

Them mistaking the endless
silhouettes of their strivings

For those of Rachel.
The wine of the spirit is flowing

Blood red. Rachel must be flying.
It was midnight all day long.

There were salted caramels for everyone,
and it was going to snow heavy flakes.

Rachel slept in the garden she had planted
to take away the pain. With her dog nestled

Faithful in her lap, she dreamt only of Louis.