Mist hangs over the river
as I clip herbs on the terrace,
a garden of window boxes, and ask the moon
for her support.
Her face half-veiled
by darkness as she stares
at the city’s skyline and listens
to the bone song of old
buildings echoing their stories
through the Autumn dusk.
Brick, granite, brownstone–
my ancestors lived
in all three kinds
hungering for the night
so they could stir their potions
and induce dreams
that would carry them elsewhere
while neighbors went to sleep
hearing carriage wheels roll
over cobblestones — and watched
a street lamp flare. Its flame glittering
within the glass cocoon
like a Luna moth.
A thought left by my sisters
who manipulated place and time.
They learned early how to bind
themselves to the spirit of plants
and the intuition of stars
from virgin to swan.
I ‘m still learning how
to turn off my phone, focus
on what the sheer stillness
can invoke —
a deep breath, a glance
at plant troughs, ceiling beams or floors,
the slate tiles on roof
and courtyard walk — where a fox
comes from her unseen lair
telling me how they still haunt (ingrained)
with secrets from her world of trees and rocks,
how I am cast
elsewhere in shadows
that have long been mine, female
but not always human.