She used to speak to me.

My ghostly pale and luminous

mother of the night.

They say she’s dead, you know

But she took me places

across rippling pools of time,

to visit her northern friend

that steadfast guide Polaris,

Then, I’d go home for a while,

to rest my spirit

in the high, fog dipped cliffs of Ireland.

She waxed and waned,

waiting patiently for my return.

I would hear her talk again

of her meetings with Venus and Mars.

I smiled at her description of their faces,

his red with blood and scarred from many battles

and hers an ever changing beauty.

Then her voice would fade,

Now, we rarely speak, for I’ve grown in years

and must suffer the reality of physical life.

I worry that she’ll pass into nothingness,

like light stolen by a singularity

like a dream long forgotten