In Adoration

Do you even remember
When we first met?

You were strong, vibrant, so very full of life.
I could only watch
In amazement.

There was no place for me.

The rules were clear:
The door was barred and
The gate closed.

I was patient, my dearest, so very patient.

Do you even remember
Our first tentative declarations?

Shared transmissions of our mutual intentions for
Respect, friendship, and enlightenment.

I was not so naive,
To believe in fairy-tale happy endings,
At least, not for me.

I was unprepared for the
Awakening of something
Thought long lost within me
By you.

Do you even remember
The novelty you were?

We have both changed,
Grown, for the better I hope.
But we are not always the best
For each other, anymore.

I still love you,
But I can not always
Live with you, as you are.

Do you even remember
Your former Spirit?

Our long history magnifies
Our mutual metamorphosis’s.

Others weigh in,
Heavy handed with their opinions.
I accept their criticism with as much
Silence and Grace
As I can muster for
Your sake.

Do you even remember
Why anyone would care?

I am your creation still,
Even as you radiate
The remnants of my final strokes.

I will never truly leave you,
Though you will go on without me.

Waiting on the Gods

Ashanti and Mirou were sitting in the warm afternoon sun, combing long strands of flax fibers and preparing them to be spun.

Mirou looked at Ashanti’s hands, then at her own. Ashanti’s hands were once soft and without the callouses that marked her own palm and fingers. They were the hands of a high priestess, not of a slave; now they were raw, red, and painful to look at.


“Yes, Mirou?”

“Are your hands happy?”

“Now, Mirou? No. But they are learning a new job, here in the sun with you. It was the Gods’ will that I leave behind my writing and my arts. My hands will be happy, in time.”

Mirou looked at Ashanti’s feet. No longer did soft slippers protect them from the bite of sharp stones. Ashanti’s feet still bled, even though she had been sitting and working for several hours.


“Yes, Mirou?”

“Are your feet happy?”

“Now, Mirou? No. They miss dancing under the light of the full moon. When Demeter herself was envious of my pretty brown slippers, I slipped them off my feet and gave them to her. Now she bleeds as if a virgin again, and I am allowed the peace of an old woman. My feet will be happy again, in time.”

Mirou looked at Ashanti’s face. Her once blue eyes were milky-white, clouded over with age.


“Yes, Mirou?”

“Are your eyes happy?”

“Now, Mirou? No. My eyes will never again see the beauty of a sunset, a tiny flower, or my lover’s face. Remember always that Silenus is an angry drunkard, and Hera bears grudges. Together, they conspired to cover my eyes, thus even Apollo’s smallest servants have advantage over me. No matter, I hear as well as ever.”

“But, Ashanti?”

“Yes, Mirou?”

“Are you happy?”

“Now, Mirou? Yes. I am happy.”

“How, Ashanti? How can you be happy? Your soft hands are in pain, your feet are bleeding, and your eyes are blind.”

“I am still here, Mirou. The Gods are not finished with me yet.”