Watching her hop along the asphalt,
I remark to him how awkward she looks
chugging along, no arms to propel,
out of her element (and I can so relate);
Then I think, and the words fairly burst
from my mouth, suspended between salmon
and cerise overtones, short
but bold interstices amidst deluges
of tropical day-long downpours,
“But she can fly!”
Great god almighty, she can FLY.
She is an archivist of the spirit,
cataloguer borne of those bred
to map and dangle
from family trees, having loosed
the mantle others gathered up gladly.
The records she tends,
mental file cards smelling
of musty library drawers marked
in alphabetical sequence,
grasping worn curved brass pulls
on oak boxes labeled Unknowable.
Some may postulate unafraid,
marching front and forward
interfacing with throngs of the disenchanted
fighting demons of doubt and desire
for life to once again prove itself predictable
like the preacher promised
Hellfire and damnation
or heavenly angels singing praises
to the One, which is You,
if only your soul is redeemable.
She is the wee elven one in the back
of the cobweb-strewn bookstore
poring over tomes, gathering bits
of wisdom, tracing archaic paths trod
by those brave enough to question
the face of the gods of man.