She sleeps, wishing her black dress gone,
an elaborate gown to take its place,
her hair honey-spun and shiny, the air
rain-scented in a sky washed clean–
(she can almost recall this life)
deeper in her wandering vision,
it’s purple-shadowed forests, chanting
beasts, repulsive, steaming hot and streaming fire–
red clouds against the blue-black sea–
she wants to wake to a magic kiss,
feel desire, sighs “if only,”
and a thousand ghost voices answer, “in time.”
The moon hums
a spray of silver light soars,
she follows, a bird in flight
over a river, spirits murmur in the dawn-glow,
she breathes, inhales secrets–
all the versions of herself, there.
Awakens, or does she?
The wind whispers, “why wait?”
This, then, the after-when.
My message from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle today.