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Your White Wimple
©Dec. 31st 2016, Olan L. Smith
I sat up in bed, my body buffeted by powerful winds
Lift me up, make me fly, float me in air powerful one,
And she did. In the middle of a doorway was I, caught between
Worlds, dimensions of hers and mine; one I cannot imagine,
Yet is, the other sensed, felt, and lived upon. "Who
Has such power, to open gateways between domains?" I ask.
No answer is forthcoming this night, only a brewing caldron
The midpoint of which I find myself―I am not asleep, this
Is not a dream. "Yes!" I shout aloud, "Come to me let
Me feel your touch upon my skin, let me ask your name!
You, a being from another realm, tell me. Is it me you seek?
Or am I by accident in the center of this whirlwind."
At last your arms appear beside me, long and slender
Dressed in white sleeves, closely kempt to your light
Brown skin that clothes your flesh. You are veiled
In white, your wimple unearthly outlines
Your face, as you grasp my hand. I feel
I cannot stay much longer, the portal
Closes and I must release you, perhaps forever,
It is not you who makes the vortex, it is me.
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YOU ARE READING
Poems from the Quill, by Olan L. Smith
Poetry"Poems from the Quill" is where I place current works that don't fall into other collections. It is here you will find obscure poems that range from constraint to free-verse. I began this collection as a contest entry, years ago, for what was then t...
