Transformation

I had wanted your wife 
to be born to the graces, 
elegantly muted 
in dove-gray and gloves, 
to take tea from fine china, 
walk perfumed in silk. 

Instead, you brought one 
reeking of wrongness — 
flawed in her nation, 
her speech, faith, and home. 
Ungainly, unsmiling, 
too small for my height. 
How could I seat her 
by you, by my side? 

Now I watch her fingers 
with delicate sweeps 
fashion fabric birds flying, 
sew black hills 
against damask skies, 
satin peacocks lambent 
on velvet fields. 

She hums, enchanted by her art 
among trees of twenty greens 
in her luminous world, 
casting jeweled lights 
as a prism 
on silk.