Dunhwa gets

Dunhwa gets

water-heating pot,

slips on orange hand-

knit or crocheted

slipper socks, rattles

cups behind drawn shade, then she

reappears, uncurls

new rice paper paintings for

visitor

to see.  He wants them

all, picks one.

Her kindness

comes from magic heart

connected to roots

sunk in old markets:

men without eyes, Eve creates,

men think, women birth,

are attached to earth.  First woman

means new life

but paint dries in so

many ways:

over and

over to find the right flow.

Dunhwa hides

nothing, moves forward,

discovers her path

as she goes,

creates as a woman should,

as one who

is directed by

universal tug.

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