I caught his eye, he smiled at me
and we both knew that everything had fallen apart.

He could no longer be my god
and when I was honest with myself,
he never really was.

I never really liked his version of the wild hunt
for I was only good at being hunted
and the grandmothers shut me down on that long ago
after they tired of watching me die.
Again and again,
only to wake up alone,
again and again.

So this god, he reeled on,
in his fancy way, twirling with the ladies
and spinning his magic through the trees.
So much fun,
so much stress leaving me as the melodies faded.

My fingers touched the pool.
Silence blossomed.
My every bone toned with the music of the night sky.

And through the near branches, the face of another came,
eyes of wisdom awaiting my reply.

I invited him into my camp
and we told each other stories.

He of his sons and me of my poetry.
He of the green-gold gleam deep in the forest
and me of my hollow bird’s bones
a secret channel into the light high, high above.

Together we laughed at the oddities of life
and cried with the beauty of the same.

He spoke of the dead and me of the very, very brave
while his horns climbed into the darkness like a spider web
melting into the trees above us.

We shared the drink of friendship
and he was no longer a god to me,
but a friend who brought me medicine when I needed it
and accepted mine with joy.

2009 Tasara Jen Stone

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