Monday, December 28, 2015


Out of a jewelry box--
in summer--
came a soul.

Creating a body from candle wax,
and fashioning feathers from locust leaves,

it said itself a songbird.

From the hand of the Boho Goddess--
in plenitude--
came night, bouzouki stars, pendant suns.

Little songbird, no bigger than a breath--
how empty the world--

and the wooden box
of my heart suspended--

when you're gone.


Ileana said...

Be still, my corazón. Touching, Shay.

hedgewitch said...

The magic of this lies both in words and in the ever-renewing song of the heart, which we cease to listen to at our peril. Also, I love bouzoukis.

Outlawyer said...

Lyrical and original. k.

Sioux said...

That pad of paper... Are those the only changes you had to make? It seems it tumbled out--almost perfect--the first time.

I hate you. ;)

TexWisGirl said...

so beautiful.

Sherry Blue Sky said...

You continue to amaze with your incredibly original stories and word choices. This was mind-expanding to read. Just superb.

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

Piercingly sweet!

Mr Puddy said...

Shay, Me reads your words Tailsand time ! and Still ... Only one word me do understand.... " Bird ! "
Thanks COD ! Me is not totally dump ...MOL

Anyhow ... Happy Holiday !

Kerry O'Connor said...

I love your sense of timing throughout this poem. The pauses say as much as the words. This is just beautiful.

Mama Zen said...

Oh wow. And I love seeing your scratch version.

Lynn said...

Gorgeous, FB.

Vesper said...

So beautiful... I too loved seeing it handwritten in your notebook...
Happy New Year, Shay!

Anonymous said...

Emily would adore this.

"in summer--
came a soul.

Creating a body from candle wax,
and fashioning feathers from locust leaves"

"Little songbird, no bigger than a breath"

This makes me think of how Voldemort comes back to life in the Harry Potter books ... thanks in large part to horcruxes and borrowed bodies. Only, in this case, it's the soul of the tiny dancing girl formerly trapped in a magic box, making magic for everyone but herself. Here, she is given wings in the most beautiful sense.

"it said itself a songbird" ... Like God, speaking things into existence. She must have great power for bringing to life her own creations, even when they're her-selves.

By the end, you have me thinking about Persephone and the deep feelings of loss and winter's-breath-on-the-neck left behind when she goes away.

But what if we consider the speaker as not Demeter (or an earthly lover), but Hades himself?