Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

July 11, 2014


The fleet Roman goddess of shadow, sleep and death, and mother of the Moirę sisters, who dole out human fate.

The mother of fate is only shadow.

Contrary to common belief, all shadow

belongs to nothing; she's a fluid single

being, like aspen. Doesn't yours sometimes

look soft and kind, and others, even

in the same conditions of light and place,

shifty and crow-like? She hops bodies

like branches. Today she nests with a shepherd,

his heavy hood soots her feathers black. Sunlight slants

down his back until his long, leaning spine spills her out

calligraphic over the velvet brown hills

shimmering with heat, the stirring sheep

and at the golden hour her stature gives

her pride, as if she were alive.

This poem will appear in the summer 2014 issue of Star*Line.

Posted by Delire at July 11, 2014 01:32 PM