She knows the spies and where they hide,
climbs hills away from town; she walks
the unworn paths where she can watch
the ones who watch, she learns their finds.
She slips through alleys and dark streets.
Her hooded cloak of worsted thread
disguises her in spheres of dread;
her art demands that she’s discreet.
She’s seen it many times before —
deceits and lies inscribed in code,
from parchment to encryted mode,
from ages past to this encore.
When power seeks again to crush;
demolishing new growth, they smash
white bones on stones. When zealots trash
snug homes, cold fears shake every bush.
She knows a magic eons old
before the dragons shed their scales;
sent from the stars with glowing tails
their crystals tied in pocket folds.
One tops her aspen walking stick,
a subtle guide that frees her sight
for things unknown. It tracks the plight
and needs of those both frail and sick;
its light unravels skeins of doubts.
Her eyes perceive the dark designs;
details may change somewhat each time
but evil goals remain throughout.
She wends her way by waning moon
to read her texts for new insights.
Then sets the plan to make things right,
she must work fast; make changes soon.
Within herself she summons spells.
The traits she wishes to disperse.
By sublimation she’ll reverse
or try– to quell the fears and ills.
Transformed to primal particles,
she fortifies the frightened folk
with courage, reason, and kind words
to hinder the intolerable.
She’s given all to aid their cause.
The denouement depends on them.
She needs some rest to reconvene.
She hopes and prays against their loss.
© Gay Reiser Cannon * July 23, 2012 * All Rights Reserved