Eight Images

			
I.
 
A branch sprouted from moonlit sand
Held fast against the subtle breeze
A downy blue, the gray is rapt
Over bow and limb and
So art thou to me
 
II.
 
A curse it is to be free.
Wretched are those who choose to choose
And in their freedom their freedom lose.
Give fortitude and credence to the plea
Those who know it hum it with a smile
While at work, while making tea
Those who know it,
Know it
 
III.
 
The body is but a ladder
(As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
As the mind deserts the body it has used.)
 
IV.
 
The water, deep and chilling green,
Turns with the leaves a sadder blue.
Above the wave and torrent fast
They burn their crimson to earthy ash
 
V.
 
A tress held fast against the weather
It, bright as the fallen phoenix feather.
 
VI.
 
A housewife to her husband’s mistress,
“Know I of you and him your business.”
A mistress to her lover’s wife,
“And I of him and you.”
There they sat a while,
Each to the other
a Loki and a Sigyn
 
VII.
 
Finger each memory, a bead to the pad, a thought to the wind
 
VIII.
 
That melancholy shawl does not fit at all
But how comfortable it must be
To lose oneself in the folds
To sleep in the warmth of breath and sighs