Being Brave

I am the old woman, the prophet, the dead
father, come with the letter, the owl, the raven
call to magic and the mystery of action – it being
so present, so enraptured, transfixed – a
destiny, a path glowing your meaning, but
you know already what comes in this note.
In this call – hush – sounds of danger and defeat
lurk. But there are no dragons, no monsters;
I ride no silver mare nor fly by the fringe
of a rug, and I surely know the only magic
is the one fevered marble’s masterpiece, and
our little part, like a bit of sea glass, blue
and broken, but that’s the point of being
a little found piece, reborn of the green
planet, in the midst of a perfect puzzle
undone: I am the ghost warning you away,
scared myself, convincing you to stay.