Piercing the Veil (an older one)

My crystal ball rests on the mantle,
a reminder of endless yesterdays,
hair flying past bared 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 lost choices,
sandals 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 my crystal ball into my lap
and gaze, eye to eye, at 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
(c)2002