(Poem by Wendy Howe )

The Sybil
penned her prophecies
on oak leaves, flung them
to the wind scented
with  salt and ripe olives.

At her stone altar
in Delphi,
the priestess chewed on laurel
while imbibing the bitter--
 sweetness of a trance.

And after the frost,
I watch dogwood shrivel
like the insoles
of worn stilettos
I don't wear but keep
for memory's sake.

Their heels were black,
elegantly stoic
as those cast-iron rails
spanning the bridge
where we walked and watched
boats shadow the sea's pulse,
a flock of birds
on the horizon. Your hand
squeezed mine, your long  fingers
sensitive,  reacting
to the closeness
of wood and water,
sky and wing ---
                               simply us.

Note -- The Sybil was an ancient seeress in Rome, revered for her ability to see far into the future. She lived in a cave near the sea and often wrote her prophecies on oak leaves.  Many of the senators and emperors sought her counsel on present and future matters of state, relationships, health etc.

© 2011, Wendy Howe. E-mail.

To know more  about this poem,   about Wendy Howe

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" Soleil d'Automne "

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Soleil d'Automne

© 2011,

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