"Cartography"
She takes the maps, stacks
them straight, rolls them very tight.
They become so small and slim.
It is a fancy trick to slide the world
into a cardboard tube- mountains tumble,
oceans spill and deserts trickle
like hourglass sand amid the tangled trees.
When she sleeps the maps unfurl
across her like a paper wing
and the places lie upon her skin,
whisper their names in her ear.
She breathes the saffron scented air
that blows across the waters
deep and dark- aglitter with possibilities.
The fragile charts cannot be burnt
nor scattered by harsh winds.
They wrap her in the colors of fortune,
shelter her safe in every cove
beneath the strongest oaks.
The iridescence of all she wishes
fills each breath and illuminates
every shadowed place within.
By daylight she paces
a slender path
within a gated garden,
her face a shuttered lantern,
heart as silent as a stone.
But the maps have done their work
and her slippered feet recall
the papery shush of stolen steps
across a fragile field.
© 2005 Dale McLain
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