Books by Diane Frank

Rhododendron Shedding its Skin

Swimming Upstream

The angel only comes
when you need her.
She folds her wings over your eyes
to take away the pain.

You say that I was blind in a past life,
my fingers learned to see there.
They touch your edges like sculpture,
bring you beyond the dark spaces
to the river, swimming upstream
in holy water.

I dance to connect myself
with sun wheels
dream circles
human hands.

I take your brown feet back
to the desert —
a shaman
in a circle of feathers
below an adobe sun.

When the Goddess came
her moonlight
was almost blinding —
Phoenix feathers
and flowers on her face,
feet of adobe.

I bring you gifts of adobe
and touch you with
fingers that learned to see
in a darker time.

— Diane Frank