Apr 9, 2017
Poem #9 4/9/17
Magic 9
I hone the skill of reimagining, like Tolkien and the trees at Dunsinane Hill.
He had to animate them centuries later, unearthing roots to battle darkness
The same way I rewrite the past, suspending disbelief, bending it to my will.
In revision, I don’t dispense all the magic in my fingertips, some I dare keep,
Because now I know it takes a little to prime the pump if I can ever hope to fill
The suppliants entering my wood needing gifts, just a stop on solitary quests.
The trick is figuring how much to hoard, how much to divvy out in order to still
The war between wraith and empty shell, to reject both’s inevitable starkness
So I can embrace fellowship, refusing either to diminish or archetype to fulfill.
