and with soft, scented skin flushed pink
from a beating heart. And she moved.
She spoke, laughed, walked under sky acres.
Then immortalized inadequately in stone or words.
Crafted but cold, stationary, here and gone.
The ringed-planet is visible dusk until dawn.
Our home is between, opposite the sun.
Rising in the east at the sunset.
Peaking at midnight, setting west at sunrise.
Distant. Closest and brightest for this year.
Air scented thickly from many spring flowers.
Heat inversion and fog and warming skin.
A morning so heavy that the peonies
can’t lift themselves to greet the sun.
I sit shaded, writing it all down.
Doppelgängers – someone who looks just like you –
German “double-goer” once ghosts of the living.
This apparition of a living person means,
if seen as yourself, you’re about to die.
I met myself today. I’m still here.
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti “How They Met Themselves” (1860-64 circa)
I am again at the labyrinth’s entrance.
No one here forces me to enter.
No one is here. I walk alone.
Circling north, south, east, west – all directions,
No direction. Only partially my own path.