Poem for April 2

THE GYPSY

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