|Jan/Feb 2016 Poetry Special Feature|
Artwork by Karen Fox Tarlton
One dreary night that was a weary dream
of an anniversary never destined,
lost and walking like a restless sleeper,
I found myself opening a dark den's door.
A card game of divination had begun.
An ancient deck blanketed their table.
One of the players said, "The Knave is here."
That's when his neighbor handed me a card.
Justice the eleventh. Ruled by Libra.
Her right hand holds a sword—scales in her left.
She wears a crown made of well-ordered thoughts.
The square clasp in her cloak holds together
the great circle of oneness within all.
He waited for me to read the card I held.
Then, like an old dear friend would sadly say,
"The card you hold is upright not reversed.
Her scales are fair. You have what you deserve."