She Is

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.

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artist

Sometimes she reaches down and touches,
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.

White frozen lake of winter, 
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.

I've blessed you, chorusing cicada, 

geese exulting through a torn sky.

Moonlight, starlight, 
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 

of that incandescent chantry...

Juliet Waldron

See all my historical novels @

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