a conversation

the witch comes to visit

with soup and a story

sets an old pot on

the bard’s little wood-burning stove

and he watches as she works,

perched on a stool

and the witch, she tells

the bard about the stars,

how they always remember

and live for thousands of years

there is one star in particular

she weaves a tapestry about

with her words,

but only where that star cannot hear

taken by pirate ship upon the waves

she speaks, with something like

fondness and resignation

about how this star,

he fell in love with the moon

and when the moon was

too far for him to follow

his love turned towards the ocean

and how it stretches from

one end of the horizon to the other

the bard knows this star well,

of course, often wakes with him

slumbering still, between the

bard and the closed bedroom door

the witch then asks the bard

what he is tied to

and the bard tells her who

he is anchored to

and, setting a bowl of

soup on the well-worn table,

the witch says, with unmistakable 

fondness this time,

“then you are a fool, bard of mine”

the bard nods in agreement,

almost tells the witch he

only eats lunch for her,

but suspects she already knows,

so says instead, 

“aye, and a fool in love

is the very worst kind” 

and the witch will agree,

because the bard is right

but, she will also tell

the bard how this star,

he loves a man

with scars through his eyebrow

and across the palm of his hand

from building a widow’s walk

with the star’s name on his tongue

the whole time

and there is an honesty

in loving someone to the point

of creation again and again,

is there not?