At the corner of the balcony

were she stood,

a set of pale blue wings

budding on her shoulders,

a delegation of parrots came,

yellow green and red flags fluttering,

just as it used to be done

at the head of the army,

and commenced a discussion

of tropical fruit. 


She recited the hagiology

of dead souls

from the royal archives

of Bohemia,

saluted the sun as it rose

in a grove of trees,

bowed to a pyramid

on the horizon,

and brushed away

a wisp of hair

electrified by the morning breeze. 


Voices tied in knots of color

picked their way through

her immediate visions;

all the roads across the front

were bathed in whitish light. 


She summoned the soothing tumult

of a waterfall

hidden behind a veil

of discarded robes,

and with a silent signal

opened a field of flowers. 


The little blue wings grew longer,

lighter, more colorful,

as buoyant as wishes,

finer than the universe of leaves,

more perfect than Chaos,

the very stuff of well-designed nebulas. 


But before she could vanish

from this earthly silliness,

before the parrots could leave

for lunch,

one curtain parted

and another fell,

a bell rang in the wilderness,

and a siren sounded

that made the world stop

just long enough to forget. 

All images and text copyrighted.  All rights reserved.  ©  Copyright 2002 David Wiley.