There is a real
world;
there is a magical world, too.
Sometimes we forget the magical
one,
struggling too hard
in the painful, dirty, bloody real one.
But the magic is here, and
She is here, too,
Our Nightmare Mistress, Life in Death.
artist
Sometimes
she reaches down and touches,
Be still and sense
Be still and sense
just the slightest grace.
The gold of autumn against blue sky,
spring green -- poignant, aching.
Heavy languid summer,
leaves, bliss in whisper of air.
leaves, bliss in whisper of air.
White frozen lake of winter,
crystal glitter bubbles riming the edge
so the fallen fool can contemplate
the looking glass, gazing into glacier.
crystal glitter bubbles riming the edge
so the fallen fool can contemplate
the looking glass, gazing into glacier.
In each season
She whispers a syllable in the ear,
sprouts a mushroom,
sings a bird ,
offers a
single, starburst wildflower,
tosses a stone from nowhere
to ripple the pond.
That's a
life worth
living.
The ghosts I've
seen
near bodies dancing,
heart's pumping blood spilled
on sandy shores.
heart's pumping blood spilled
on sandy shores.
I've blessed you, chorusing cicada,
geese exulting through a torn sky.
Moonlight, starlight,
wind and rain and stinging snow.
wind and rain and stinging snow.
I've seen the Aten,
clamoring hands reaching
from below the horizon,
my eyes
swimming in seawater,
heard souls at the gate
heard souls at the gate
of that incandescent chantry...
