She breezes in through the curtains,
draped in nine yards of mystery
and mastery and mountain-moving faith,
trails copper coins from faraway lands,
and brings oven-fresh love
for the lost and the lone-hearted.
Her eyes are bright, but her fingers
folding the envelope
are stiff with yesterday’s cold night air.
When she frowns, her kajal darkens
until daylight is engulfed by her displeasure.
Her face has cruel lines in the early morning
that soften into smiles by mid-day.
She drives so fast, she is everywhere and nowhere
and sunbeams reflect off her shoulder.
When she disappears, we swap theories:
if she stays past sundown, her car morphs
into a muskmelon drawn by German mice
or a dragon that twists its chains around her neck;
you plan to trail her to her gingerbread house
while I wait for the restless forge
to spit out my iron sword.