Poem: Wand

 

 

Wand 

 

a ladle stirs silver

till stars feed the bubble of dawn;

a crescent in a whirlpool’s navel,

when fire bleeds onyx

for radiant blooms.

 

down, down, down plummets the moon,

nowhere except back up again,

to conduct leaf and beast, earth and flesh,

passion, air and rain,

this fitful baton of the mercurial stage

 

whose actors babble and seethe,

wander and cry through a gauntlet

of transformations, scene after act

after play, curtains of light and lack and love,

cut and birthed and gone.

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All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.  They have their exits and their entrances; and one soul in its time plays many parts.  As You Like It, Shakespeare