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.
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