Cypresses, Bathing

On my way, I come upon them— A gathering of old women Soaking their cracked, graying skin, Their thick bodies sprawling voluptuously: Knees bent, Curving out of the water, Heads thrown back in a tangle of vines and leaves. I pause a moment, Waiting to hear their voices echoing with years, Telling me what I need to know, But the sun has made them sleepy and secretive; I hear only their whispered laughter. They do not trust me; I am not yet ready to listen.