There may come a time in life’s journey when thine own self
rings as hollow and false as an old fool in an usurper’s court.
Well, OK, fear a little, but wonder, too.
Pick up your plastic pumpkin and travel out past the cemetery,
(where all is mud, sweethearts and emperors alike),
out from the false gods to the dark forest
untroubled by hope.
You may well find, as the fearsome shapes
materialize before you into roots and branches,
that the infernal circles and poisoned swords you worry about
are as much your destiny as a dream,
a mere plaything for the mid-life mind.
And then, at last, you can be true
to who you are not, like the child
growing past herself into the world,
trying on outfits two sizes too large,
giggling at the soul’s vast power
to knock on the doors of absolute strangers, and become
whatever it takes
to taste of life’s sweetness.
There, beyond the wood,
by a strange light,
you find yourself recognized
for who you are not yet,
affirmed in your spells and transmutations,
and the sound of providence
will greet your beggars bowl,
as you turn around to see the stars again.