She sits with her knees apart, the II of Swords
her eyes bound, her mouth seeming both stern and sad
She is the querent; she is myself caught in the act
being torn between equal things
swords crossed on her shoulder, crescent moon in a mocking pose
the beach and rocks poking through a tranquil sea behind her.
She is of two hemispheres and thus two minds
Her garment may be white, and may be gray
and I lay upon her breast the V of Wands
contention, disagreement, a donnybrook of all against all
with no driver but youthful exuberance, perhaps stupidity
Above, the VII of Swords
the very picture of a man making a retreat he finds most opportune
He abandons a campfire and the tents of his friends
what is he, why flee, and what is there of him in me?
Comes Temperance, to pour consciousness into unconsciousness and back again
for Temperance is what must be lived to make the work happen
that work of being awake, truly aware.
The Knight of Cups offers once again allegiance, wise counsel.
And the Tower blasts me back into the present
The shock, the bitter fall, the almost-had-it.
The II of Pentacles strolls up, juggling on a clear day
full of high seas adventure and what looks like
a child’s rendering of a tsunami.
And seated in honour next his knight, the King of Cups appears
and puts his bold chin in my view, saying
listen to Temperance! Govern yourself or be governed
by the debt you need not pay to regret.
The Knight of Pentacles, so solemn, his horse so placid
bits of greenery stuck in his helm and his horse’s harness –
offers me what? Money? Nothing but an expanse of yellow sky.
The Magician, to point out the obvious
Infinity, the secret names of things inherent
in their common atoms
the binding up of secrets and knowledge
in the faintly whispered text.
I did a reading without asking a question, and look what happened.