L'aura del Campo

At the Winter Market

Nancy at the Winter Market

A red cardinal perched in her hat that day.
Should we have avoided her?
Could we have?
No one can avoid an artiste resplendente
expressing herself.
The air wrapped around her as if summoned.
Call her a crone.
Won't matter.
All roads lead her way.
The way she had embraced her magic at age Sixty.

No need for excuses.
No time for apologies.
Art flowed through her.

Last week a chicken sat on her head.
Nancy had a way with silk leaves and feathers.
Steam-punk pumped through variegated veins;
and yet,
she was alive, wrinkles and all.

No excuses.
No apologies.

Call her Crone.
She accepts the honor graciously,
laughter crinkling
'round the myriad facets of her eyes.

© Kåre Enga (2.diciembre.2018) edited since

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