The Mermaid by Minerva Bloom

    On Sunday
    I shall spread,
    In perfect 
    Perfect peace,
    Magic Dust.

Everything gathers with the waves,
The flakes of past moons,
The spirals of singing shells, 
The tender whispers of lovers,
The miracles of mermaids.

    On Sunday when you celebrate,
    Turning towards the Sun
    For a precious speck of my love
    To grace your countenance,
    You shall see me in the paths of foam.

When Day falls, and the Sun,
Golden Pomegranate,
Plunges into the Maternal Sea,
Splashing crimson in sacred silence,
My love will be your love,
First love of all love.

Minerva Bloom
September 2002

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