Myth Maker

 

 

myth

The hour’s splendor is story. Intricate

as the sun casts

his web of light, the wind its breath, the spider her silk.

and in their netting of time

 

I become a wren

perched  on a fence, watching

tall grass lean toward the pines. their trunks exposing

 

the wood work of beetle or worm. Totem-esque

carvings that call

night spirits home from their journey, mother birds

from their morning hunt. Memories from my tribe.

 

And in this daydream strung

between corners of the  field

I become a leaf

drifting toward the ruins of a mission

and clinging to its wall.

 

I feel the pulse of prayer, Voices

of  blue nuns who prayed

two centuries before. Their plainsong echoed

among night birds and stars, coaxed

 

cactus blossoms to open

and  sigh with fragrance, expel

the soul of a maiden

who had escaped their tutelage

 

and become (as I remember)

a white-plumed  moth.

 

2 comments

  1. This is a virtual kaleidoscope of images, senses, and memories; all of it blending into something at once surreal and very real. A noteworthy accomplishment!

    Like

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