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Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Poem for April 2


A gypsy looks at the night sky
and sees the world as it used to be. 
Yes yes in books the stars have names
but in the sky there are no captions
and a gypsy knows the star of tonight
has a terrible hunger for food that has
no name, for taste and texture unexplored.

The moon cooler in this gypsy's lore,
its dangers ancient ones known by those
who hear then speak without stars in their voices.
The moon's power on earth broken into pieces -
the thousand departed souls in paper lanterns
that float down the river to light a traveler's way.

Some gypsies still travel after dark falls when
false impressions of day sleep in the caves. 
The night traveler carries a torch that lights
only the piece of road in front of him and ah,
his ears hear the sigh of birds in the nest
and his nose smells fresh scat of a goat far away.

Tonight the gypsy will find an owl's feather. 
She might use the barbs for a paintbrush
or the shaft for a nib.  She might hold it
up to the wind for that chance music. 
She might remove her glove to pet it,
then some moonless night she will taste how that felt.

Mary L. Barnard
March 16, 2014

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