Witch
       

Moonlight is infinitely
More dangerous. It sleeps
In the boredom of gray winter nights, dulled
By the flat light of fog.
Only the patient can read.

I have the genius of patience,
Restoring myself to myself, ignoring
The fat croak of distance.
My breath is a shadow for mirrors,
And it holds the whole world.

What can you see there?
A dance of mice, or the slouch
Of great apes? You may wonder, or smile
At your own silhouette:
It's a subject for study,

Like any other, and of as much use
As any other. I am content
As the bird on my shoulder—
My gift to the world, he pecks at,
Hectors the stars.

It's not unfamiliar—they may
Even move. What proof
Do you have against us?
We need no more music, we have
Our own fingers. The smiles of years

Burn in our throats.
The trees are my sentinels,
And they whisper what's near.
I am quite happy here; I like
Being useful.

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Copyright © 2017 Diann Blakely All rights reserved
from Lost Addresses
Salmon Poetry
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission