In days of yore, a king and queen
grew sick at heart and longed for more
than wealth can bring. “A girl or boy,”
they both prayed quietly—then rushing
past their joy, inside a witch’s hut,
let tarot cards decide their luck.
Skies grew dark then lightning struck
that aged oak beside the witch’s hut—
for fate falls hard on those who pluck
Pan came without spring, his song a taunt—
Danced with dry leaves, on hoof, with lute—
That hateful tune of rose’s briar—
That dreadful tale in cloven strides—
Bushy limbs nimble to the lyre and gyre.
And the owl’s eyes grew wide with seeing,
weary with seeing, till the spell took root,
and forests conquered kingdom and castle,
and the old wings flapped off to the moon.
crumbing castle . . .
in a closet, in a shoebox,
Among the poppies we wandered far
till twilight hazed us all in dreams.
We reached the brambles at morning’s gleam
and stopped at forest’s edge to try the fruit—
The taste of sorrow, the tear of thorns—
And now that silver time has cast me all in tears
I long to know, who was that golden soul
I sojourned with? Why came we here?
And did we set it all to right? If not, am I to blame,
or was it fate, man’s wretched plight?
forged from fog . . .
her body a ripple adrift with feathers as fingertip to fingertip they interlace now pull apart encircle until he spins away as she abandoned swirls herself in mists becomes eclipse of clay that spins upon a wheel of time
The soldier is the same age as my son. His camouflage from some other conflict. He says they were indoors the day before at the Capitol. They hadn’t dressed for tents at the fairgrounds in January. It was kind of cold. He says after he got it he felt like Superman. He has to ask me to unclench my fist three times.
I’m out of toilet paper for three days.
Outside of my window, there is an eerie silence. Only the boy with this self-made tin foil hat bravely goes his way.
I open my last packet of paper tissues.
Thank goodness! There is still soap and water …
Covid Winter —
once again no one has set
the alarm clock