Of course children liked her
ancient voice and the way
her silver hair wore the wind
like a calico scarf. Feathered hands
charmed the weather in a simple
motion, candled passages
where each breath had been.

Dragon dreams and wicked spells
looked for a man
on a white horse
to dispel the gospel of certainty.

Listening, we darkened ourselves
into shadows among the oak chairs,
preparing for the long silences
the afternoon inherits.