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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1721158-Superstitious
Rated: E · Poetry · Personal · #1721158
Superstitions don't die—they just resurface in different forms
When I was small enough
to ride sofa arms like ponies,
chase spring-blown cottonwood fluff,
puzzle over hieroglyphs in the Sunday funnies—

I lived by superstition:
avoided sidewalk cracks like worms after rain,
jinxed my sister when we spoke in unison,
crossed my heart for truth,
crossed fingers for a lie.
Fairies played cricket fiddles
beneath my window,
and leprechauns farmed
four-leaf clovers on the front lawn.

Time’s long gone since I sipped tea
from yellow daffodil bowls
or yelled hello to my echoes.
The click-clacking engine of adulthood
lured me away, lulled me,
pulled me inch by inch past the point
of warding off the evil eye—

so far that even a world of ogres
can’t restore virtue to old talismans.

But Sundays I still wrap myself
in a blanket soft as cottonwood down,
settle into the sofa,
puzzle over the paper
like a Sphinx.









Contest/publish records:
Winner, American Fork Arts 2012 Council Poetry On Canvas
American Fork Arts Council chapbook Utah Voices, 2012
Messages on the Water http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/merrijane
© Copyright 2010 Merrijane (merrijane at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1721158-Superstitious