Her Emblazoned Mane

I do not know her name,

nor dare I ask it.

I have laid eyes this night

on the most enchanting hue of blaze,

to ever cross man’s field of vision.

These magic, curling locks,

could belong to none

save a Celtic lass

of purest spritely blood.

And I have no doubt

that she is of the race

that so enchanted Odyseus, Hercules,

and Sinbad of lore.

Nor would I swear

that she is not in fact the very one,

the selfsame siren

whose enrapturing spell was cast

so very long ago.

To ask her name,

by legend her most intimate possession,

would be to risk,

to gamble,

perchance to shatter,

the very sorcery

to which I cling.

L.

1/23/96

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