Sibyl

I wake from a dream of water's fingernails
scratching limestone boulders
beneath the abandoned temple floor.

My bare feet crush wreaths of gardenias.

Sweet vapor rises from fissures,
invisible wrinkles on a stone forehead.
Someone reaches out an alabaster hand
and I rise into the air.

The lightning of soft wings.

I advise the King to go east
to seek a maiden with a cat's emerald eyes
and carry her through a lake of purple lotus.

I pronounce Socrates the wisest of men.

History is the art of revision.
Young priests in white linen tunics
inscribe my predictions in verse.

I blink back voices in the willowy fume.

The tide of mountains will twist and turn.
The scented springs will vanish
erasing traces of faults
converging beneath the temple floor.

Water breathes through my long white hair.

The paths call us with serpentine tongues.
She who leads ascends the blue mountain
overlooking a sea of pink clouds.