If she mirrored me
she refused to know it,
choosing, instead,
the finer lines
of her father’s reflection.

There were times
I wished her gone,
her and her herd
of fragile unicorns –
or cornered where
I couldn’t watch
their golden dances
filling the space in my mirror.

When she left that spring,
the corners grew shadows.
She set free the unicorns
and took all of my mirrors
with her.

……….

Her Son Leaving Home

Young Dionysus,
a faded blue bandana
circling his head like a halo,
layers himself with choices
forgotten by the gods.
He smells of earth, of dreams,
of rain that flows with ease
along acres of hilly woodland,
filing some final need
in the deep hollows of stones.

He releases himself to the magic of motley,
to the wind, alive in his unbound hair,
to sweet pickings, scattered
like ripening berries
along miles of roadside vines.