In the Hall of Splintered Mirrors

Forty-seven days ago she died
and now she wanders
down the hallway of mirrored reflections
the glass slowly cracks and splinters
shards float in the pool where visions gather
here she walks as all the waking dead do.

For she once was a handmaiden to the solid earth
she was a weaver
and made beautiful dream baskets
for all the princes of the world,
wondrous dreams to carry into the underworld.

Humans are born with stories to tell
to shake loose the fruit of faith
to speak of living hell
to fashion glory from the sun
to sprinkle stardust from every cloud
to open the womb of love
with a thousand ruby lips that lie

to kiss the fragile emptiness
and rise
and rise
an immaculate conception
with a song to sing:
the ocean refuses no river.