In the dome the women
come and go and speak
of fruit hanging
from the bough
of a twisted tree
the color of red clay.
It bends down to yield
jade pear     pearly peach
mahogany grapes.
Around its pebbled path
flowers spiral blue
shells spin lace
and night pushes against
the dome in waves
with bright clouds
trailing behind
like wisps of ivy.
The stars come riding
shards of their own