Edward Weston



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Woman as Viola

Where have you put your arms?
your legs?
How do you run?
make music with your hands?
Listen to birds,
and sing your own true song?
What do you protect,
hunched over like that?
What do you hide?
Why have you surrendered
arms and legs and head
to be an instrument,
in someone’s serenade,
sequencing a score you cannot
see or hear?
It’s not to late
to clothe yourself in mountain gear,
hiking boots and feathers,
head out for distant trails,
ascend to peaks
beyond those sharps
grown flat and monotone.
Grow wings and fly!
Instrument no more,
conduct yourself
in symphonies
cadenced to your own unfolding