In the stone room
far in the cold north
I gaze into the silver bowl
filled with clear water
and wait to see
what I will never know.

Three darkly cloaked figures
scurry through the room
on soft shoes
and down the long stone hallway
to the door to the sky,
that opens like two hands
letting go.

They jump.
Their black cloaks turn
to raven wings as they fall,
then take flight,
to pluck at the face
with the eyes
that shift between
reed-green innocence
and violet guilt.

The bowl tips,
the water spills,
I run after the three dark figures
down the hallway,
through the open door,
I fall backwards into the sky,
fall into what
I don’t know.

Copyright Kay Winter

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