For Joan

The species procreates
then kills intself off
as you plant
red roses for your lover
and yellow-green squash
for you table.
Governments commit genocide
as you discover magic
in your night.

I let the heavy white wine
roll in my mouth
as I read your letter.
Feeling alienated again, are you?
Ah - but how usual this is
as you let that cynicism overwhelm
your oft forgotten mystery.

What about those elves
left in the forests?
Remember?
You were so certain.
Do you think romance
takes the edge from realities?
I do still.

Your herb island
has grown smaller
and pushed you off -
what ideal have you now?
And do you know the magic elixir?