Wounded Shaman .....- For Francesca

She sits like a song In her rocking chair. Grace evident - Smiling radiant Power curling on spun glass. Bound to a solitude --"Welcome, Old Friend" Moving as if to escape the skin; Magic beats her heart, brights her eyes. Thoughts ignite her hands. Wisdom firing from her fingers.... -Ink is the escape. Her hands have molded souls And waved to create breezes That brushed Goddess' hair. Memories - turned inside-out Feelings - turned outside-in... Flesh stolen; enigma given, unaccepted. Withered grapes on a kitchen window sill Harbor memories of the vine... And "Tea-Drops" on socks from a cup long drunk Hide Steps Taken in other worlds. Ink formed thoughts give wings to this simple woman. Leaving wonder in the wake. She sings with a pen. Droplets of playful spirit released from A squirt bottle, Taming a busy cat....and the Impish laughter paints beauty on her face, Electrifying her hair into sparks that blow across the Universe. Tiny Fey lurk in the corners Waiting to come out and dance with her. And like a song...... The Shaman In her rocking chair.....