The scarf says it, slinking
one long silver-silky slide
across her shoulders, slipping
easy over her arms,
something of its own language -
sciarpa, écharpe - romance.
Nothing of northern muffle or its gutturals.
Only this seamless shift
past borders where exchange
is nodded through. Watch her hand
play with the fringe, her fingers
sly and elegant as a cat.
D A Prince
If you have any comments on this poem, D.A. Prince would
be pleased to hear from you.