Editor’s note: This sweet, tender poem manages to give a rare new twist on “Cinderella,” while also evoking the look and smell of some of my favorite herbs. Lovely.
She comes to my cottage, adorned in
Cinders and ash, silver-gray as the artemisia,
Growing in my garden.
She comes to tell me there will be a ball.
That she longs to go. For her, my only godchild,
I gather sage, lambs’ ear and lavender,
Lemon balm and mint, beginnings and endings,
In an ancient basket.
She shall have a dress the color of
Rosemary blossoms,
Drawn not from needle or wand, but from wish,
Slippers crystal-clear as rainfall, though they
Are more difficult, requiring freshly gathered dew
And a stronger spell.
For her hair, a circlet of
Pearls from the ashes so readily at hand.
Her scent, roses and anticipation.
A carriage from a pumpkin.
To break a spell of envy, gratings
Of lemons and oranges, but
No love potion. That is her work, not mine.
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Bio: Deborah W. Sage is a native of Kentucky, USA. She merged her talent and interest in her first published book of poetry.
A former business executive who after years of being committed to the bottom line is gaining equilibrium in her psyche through her endeavors in folklore.
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Image from Pixabay.
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