My crystal ball rests on the mantelpiece,
a reminder of endless yesterdays,
hair flying past bare shoulders,
beaded earrings, bartered savagely
from Washington Square peddlers,
clinking in time to sandals slapping
over cobblestone trails.

A gypsy, they called me,
those men who bent to kiss the hem
of my skirt.

My feet now stick to one place,
velcroed by the gravity of irretrievable choices,
sandals long tossed to the trash
scarves folded into camphorwood chest
earrings, toys for my neighbor's child.

Yet, nights when the full moon rises
and the raven sings his sweet song,
I take the crystal ball into my lap,
gaze, eye to eye, into the glass.
I see the gypsy I once was,
the gypsy I still am.
My gift...
Me, returned to myself.
Welcome home, the crystal sighs.



Pris Campbell
(written 2002, revised 2006)
©2006

Graphic by Pris Campbell


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