radiating beams of light
like children’s pictures of the sun
but white, misty.
Last night I left all my crystals
out to catch that light.
Today I washed them
in running water,
laid them to dry on towels
and began dusting their shelves.
Confronting the moon
and myself
brings me to action.
My demon is called Escape.
But it’s Spring
and I’m tired of burying my head
even in poetry.
All that power
I’ve been storing and hoarding
and hiding
having reached its fullness
now demands an out.
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