She used to speak to me.
My ghostly pale and luminous
mother of the night.
They say she’s dead, you knownothing but a small, cold world.
But she took me places
across rippling pools of time,
to visit her northern friend
that steadfast guide Polaris,and she would tell us of her arduous life.
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.She knew I wouldn’t be long.
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,like leaves swept away by the breeze.
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 forgottenby the child who no longer has its youth.