Scrying Glass

Oh to have a scrying glass,
An obsidian mirror,
Like a witch in a tower,
To peer upon its surface like calm water,
To see across mountains and eons,
To see conversations elsewhere,
To hear music not yet written,

I’d love to be a raven,
In the trees of another’s mind,
Watching and eavesdropping,

I’d love to be a spirit,
In the attic of another’s home,
Learning of their life,

I’d love to be a diviner,
To read the auguries of another’s future,
From my plum tent on the hill,

To be not restricted to one pair of eyes,
I gaze at the mirrors face,
I just want to see what others see,
How are their days going?
What charges their souls with vim?
Do they speak of me?
What whispers to them in their solitude?

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