like a shooting star,
ceasing to be in a blaze of ancient light
Chronos catches me
with palms painted
in ancient runes that speak with no tongue.
“It’s magic,” Wind whispers.
And like a child, I believe.
I frolic along a precipice
as if I would-not could-not fall into depths
so deep, my voice would fade entirely before
the callous bottom met yielding flesh.
And yet, faith & love keep me
on high, sharp edges – edges made of rock and razor
& painted by all the sky-denizens.
- See Sun with her vibrant brush,
She sweeps broad strokes in warm hues
of gold & blue & flecks of amber.
And then there is Moon with her soft style.
With delicacy born of veiling secrets,
She tints the world
in shimmering silver, pearlescent gauze
& embraces the dark palette without fear.
Witness the Stars, vainglorious muse of many a poet
(& legions of the lovelorn), who sprinkle
sparkle & luster & glitter to add that
is met, is held to its promise.
Like magic, myth or miracle if it is believed,
there is power.
I have power.
I have power.
I have power
& belief in the gift of beautiful paintings
done by untouchable beings.
like the universe, always conspires
to shift, to cause worlds, lives, beliefs to tumble
& I must cling
& find strength in chaos
to rise again,
changed in irrevocable fashion
yet at my center, I remain red.
Like an image, a mirror of my creator, I reflect.
I seek answers behind closed doors,
& like Wind before me,
always weaving with wizened, lovely fingers.
She looks up, stitching never ceasing & answers before I ask.
“You already know the answer, child.”
& my heart shines, effervescent in its bliss.
(c) JP 5/29/12