Poem: 0. The Fool

Another poem, scribbled in a fit of whimsy on my couch the other day.

Oh, I have spent my life
walking on the air.

Yes, I feel those white teeth
nip my ankle,
hear the warning bark, all well-meant,
herding back to a grounded life
bunched and safe, like sheep.

My eyes mark the crows
and the glory-of-god bird
and the light on the bucking limbs
the drip of icicles on the twig
tossing rainbows onto snow

but at the rim of vision,
yes, I see what yawns.
How can I not?

I have spent my life
walking on the air.

Sometimes, I am cloaked with feather
and dance on the rising tide of the light.

Sometimes I tumble, a jumble
of blood and bone on stone
as the dog howls above.

Yes, I see what yawns.
How can I not?

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About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
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