The sky when pale and streaked with fine white clouds
Takes on the tone of a wishing well,
Where idle thoughts may be tossed,
Small coins to nestle in the thin strung-cotton netting
And float beyond the horizon, seeking out the gods.

Somewhere amid the dancing ozone molecules,
The bent and swallowed ultraviolet rays,
And the spreading, sprawling broken sunlight,
Idle dreams may find new life
As playthings of those gods.

Bare feet planted firmly across the path,
Bare arms crossed before her,
The blonde one echoes a challenge,
"My name is Destiny,"
And laughs as I turn away, pretending not to hear.

"You met me once, lifetimes before.
Do you not remember?
Do you not remember the morning sky
Touched as it was with crystals of ice?
Am I forgotten?"

All is forgotten, I claim,
And Destiny no more than idle illusion,
Set to waylay one who's given up all such desires
And seeks nothing from the well but the cool drink
Offered late on the journey to a worn and weary traveler.
 

2/28/2000

Index     Love Poem