A cave that seems a stone’s throw wide 
feels safe, a haven from searching storms, 
until curious children hear the clatter of the chasm 
paddle-pressing the pebbles down a flat scale, 
descending to a baritone staccato echo 
only a wraith hidden in mist could purr. 
Hours pass until a hollow plop unveils the dark rippling 
light of a cracked lake’s surface. The liquid that feeds it 
somewhere sees the sun, but here crystal blue 
is a manic dream of the dark mirror beckoning 
sweet pixie girls who play at butterfly fairy tales 
to spelunk to her flickering, sparkling surface 

for a taste of wishes granted. Not many pass by 
this way anymore. Their glossy pocket watches 
have positioning systems to guide their way 
home without any side quests. 
No more naïve prey for the Lady of the Lake. 
What to do with her vacuum now? 
Once, she longed for love like a mortal woman 
and thought on occasion magic might procure it, 
but no. To force desire was not desire at all. 
Excalibur was a fun toy for a time, 
but even the sword she guarded was, 
in the end, meant for a man. 

A mirror can never gaze upon itself: 
a cavity of bright blindness without a name 
replicates behind relentless haze obscuring the horizon.