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Old women talk about old things: history, myth, magic and their
checkered pasts, about what changes and what does not.

Tuesday, January 14, 2020

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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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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