THE PHILTER
You pass into dark woods beyond echoes reach
Past
perches of birch with shrill whippoorwills trilling
Where
ospreys conspire and tawny owls screech.
Between columns of
aspen and ash down a path
Lined with honeydew droppings and
annelid mulch
Where sentinel oaks keep their obstinate vigils
On
past caldera, cranny, canyon and gulch.
You kneel at the brink of an
ink-colored stream
You drink of its shadows and bathe in its
nothings.
Then donning a shroud made from old tattered dreams,
You
pass through a cleft in a curtain of vines
(Each leaf a
scintilla of glitter and jade)
And there at your
heart’s destination arriving
Before you, a terrace,
and on it, a glade.
There ignes fatui chant in hushed
tones
As the eventide ebbs to the will-of-their-whispers
And
the waning moon sheds shaved slivers of bone,
The essence of
crescents of silver-lit nights.
They opalesce (more or less)
with a luster and trance
Descending like petals, suffusing the
clearing
With a sense of excitement, the scents of
romance.
You reach up to stir up the
slurry of stars
And reverse the moon’s course from
waning to waxing.
You call upon Venus, Centauri and Mars
You
tell them your purpose and ask for a boon.
You kneel down to
pluck up some spices and herbs
Invoking their names and
requesting their blessing
Then carefully cover the soil you
disturbed.
You gather up lemon balm stem, leaf, and
bloom,
Take tonka shells broken to harvest their seedlings
And
gardenia’s white blossoms gleaned in the gloom
And
pluck petals of jasmine to press for their oil.
You crush
these with pestle and mix them with musk.
You ask for their
favor and name your enamored,
Then allow them to
brew until next evening’s dusk.
You serve
your intended the philter you fixed.
You wait for its actions
but nothing occurs.
It isn't the herbs' fault or
how they were mixed:
It's the effort to make love that makes a
love potion
The journey to get there, the care and devotion.
It
isn’t the substance but how it is sealed.
You affirm
with your lips and so seal it with kisses.
And this is its
seal and this is and this is.
And this is again; and this is
and this is.
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Autobiograffiti
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