K: The Guardian

The Guardian

In the villa of intention people gather,
And talk about how to do good or bad
But on the balcony of the third floor
a grandmother stands
disposing tarot cards into the trees
with a laugh so quiet
you might mistake it for the snowfall.

Her hands move through her fine hair
like pale spiders, weaving.
Who would have thought that while we sit
on large over-stuffed chairs
that someone like her would keep watch
over us all
in what some call the end-time.

Then the room goes silent
and the winds speak: Nazarene
the group in the corner
shriek, running back and forth,
some yelling birth, some yelling death.