Saturday, July 15, 2006

A Different Dance

The Gypsy Tree

They have returned!
The slow creaking meadow ruts,
and careful pitted fire –
a gleaning of discarded branches –
ahh –
like a comb through raven hair
I am cleansed!

Laughing children in my arms –
weary comfort from the sun;
and I wait …

Shadowed moonlight needs no lanterns –
barefoot prancing,
swirling maidens,
ribald stories – finger pointing –
yes they will come.

Glowing embers – banked for dawning,
a couple yearning –
two as one.
Between my gnarled roots,
against my ancient bosom,
they sway to my heartbeat –
and I can dance again.

2 Comments:

At 10:05 AM, Blogger Ramona said...

How vividly evocative! I can feel the comb through raven hair and smell the smoke and dust.

 
At 9:18 PM, Blogger Gwen M. Myers said...

Ahh, faucon!! My feet yearn for the dance anew from you words!! There is the ancient language of the Rom in you spell, woven of mystery and glamourie.

 

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