By Jenne Micale
Jenne Micale
Look: the weathered wood of the barque rides the leaf-green sea.
Look again: the white foam streams in the wind, mane of mares.
A chariot skims the grass-heads.
Birds fly silver-scaled.
Another mystery of the road poured out from a bag of crane skin.
Speak false, and cracks splinter the cup, the mead splashing out.
Speak true, and wounds heal in metal and flesh, silver bells sound on the branch, bringing laughter, sleep, surcease from pain.
Another mystery of the cloak he shakes between us and other.
With meadow grass, we pay the rent to Fand’s beloved.
Yellow blossoms, a cask of ale where the foam touches the sandy shore, echoing cliffs or the fall of mist.
Another mystery of the gray at the joining of dusk and day.
Son of Lir, all land is your fabled isle, all seas your sea, the changing of light in the depths.
All is mystery.
Look and look again: flowers, fish, grass
What is and is not.
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