The Woman Wore Red
I dreamt of a woman in red,
and when she spoke,
I heard her heart in my ears.
I heard her blood rushing
heavy rhythms of storms,
and she stood there
in all weather, as if victorious.
She, with no shadow,
and no angel’s trumpet,
followed me like
the wind’s direction.
She, a rusting
iron sign post, seeking direction.
Arms up, she’s a poet.
Arms down, an old woman
who’s looking for her voice.
Who is she to those who see her –
confusion, an obstacle, denial?
She called out names and places,
pointed left for freedom,
and left for conflict, called out to
those who left life behind.
There is but one road on a journey,
but the distance is always incorrect.
It’s always longer than you think.
That’s what the woman in red said.