Her Own World

Last night, she called.
Below her window,  two bear cubs
mewed in moonlight, swayed face to face
singing strange songs,
meanings she needed to heed,
though the message seemed
not quite clear.

She proclaims to be a spiritual entity
conceived on Halloween under the auspices
of a Kundalini monk. Not exactly a witch,
but something of that sort. I'd say,
a diner at a Voodoo Cafeteria,
sampling this and that, mixing and matching
whatever philosophy is on the bestseller list.

The chubby, raven-haired sprite,
full of schemes, superstitions, old wives tales,
has become the Sayer,
pulling me aside at a CVS exit,
pointing to a stack of newspapers,
National Inquirer.
"Tell me this... If Atlantis is such a hoax,
why even write about it?"

I got to know her again,
was pleased she seemed
to find a balance lacking.
But the magician of emotions
deals a deck loaded with what
might be called
her hand of truth.
I feign amusement
listening like a five year old,
all ears, obedient, a Gramophone dog.
 

Once, she instructed me on the finer points
of turning rocks into gold.
Years later, when I found this untrue,
I laughed. Sometimes, I still do.
Usually, I maintain silence.
Nothing measures to perfection.
We are all travelers in the same desert.
Some concede to die
on the banks of a mirage.