Pop Universes

Behind the glass of her unblinking eyes,
A thousand locked hallways begin to grow,
Where winter never falls and summer dies
Into the amber light of long ago.
She wears the iron teeth of ancient gates
Like heavy coins upon a slender brow,
A crown of heavy brass and silent fates
That pins the future to the golden now.

The small round plums hang low like frozen bells,
Untouched by wasps, unbothered by the rot,
While from her hair a subtle music swells—
The language of the things we have forgot.
Each rusted groove upon her forehead knows
Which secret cedar box remains unread,
Which heavy door against the northern snows
Was bolted shut before the words were said.

She does not speak, for speech would shake the ring
Where every silver latch finds its balance;
She only watches for the coming spring
To test the weight of her inheritance.
A pale and porcelain shore, a steady gaze,
She stands before the threshold of the deep,
The gentle warden of our wandering days,
The only one who wakes while others sleep.