Friday, January 6, 2012

The Astrologer

She makes her own signs, that one.
She’ll wait and look- and clasp it from the sky
And word it like a vowel from God.

Oh, woman!
That poor, deluded creature!

She threads her own stars
And prods destiny with a nail
Tinted rose red.
Posted by at 2:34 PM

2 comments:

  1. Intriguing. I want to ask, but will assume this isn't the time or place. :-)
    Hope you're well. x

    ReplyDelete

  2. Hardly, Miss T.
    Thinking of my own folly back in the day- when everything was a Sign. Fated!
    There must be a Reason and I will Make one!

    :)
    Instead of delighting in the peculiarity- and then discarding it as just that.

    ReplyDelete

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