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
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......
In her rocking chair.....
Copyright © Cynthia Moyer | Year Posted 2006
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