we have no reflection in the mirror,
it lowers its eyes
there are times when I grow so homesick
for your hair,
that my fingertips go still and sleep,
so that they can find, by touch, their dreams of you.
You are the only one I love,
but this is not the only poem that carries my love--
I will fold them,
and lay them,
in Wiccan patterns on my wooden floor to guide you.
Find them in the silver slant of moonlight.
Follow the night-bloom scent of jasmine.
Look for my room, softly lit and waiting.