Miss Mistress : Angel Alchemy
~Bleuzette La Feir
Magic exists because we conjure it.
Here’s to the conjurer.
Here’s to the writer-reader, the Right
Reverend Love Binder who rests
on raw silken cushions,
ticked and tufted, hued by prisms.
Dog sentries sit watch, visible
by refraction of star dust.
Magic is born because we birth it.
Here’s to the mother.
Here’s to the nature nurturer, the Rosy
Ranger of Fear-Free Forests. She guides,
she raises fist high with steady lantern
tender yellow glowing – showing.
Summoning soft creatures–
instincts high in focused reconnaissance.
Magic grows because we feed it.
Here’s to the chef.
Here’s to the potion master, the Abbess
of the Great Feast of Corpus Self. Selfless
selfness, as the Lamas say, this is the way.
Mulled in life-liquid within, steep away.
Make merry the day with blood wine as
then will float cerebral vessels on the half-swell.
Magic lives because we insist.
Here’s to magicians.
Here’s to abracadandylions, untamers
of hungry beasts, preservers of the Keep.
Where leaded light windows, stab soul shrines,
cloister searchers and shiners of stained
glass confines. Glass breaks. Yet
heated and honed, it reshapes anew.