I find myself lacking in sight,
Burned with the wrong persciption.

My mother sees,
As does her mother
Whispers of a witch
Before that.

Carefully contained words
Superstitions responses,
All withheld behind
Shimmering lenses.

My Grandmother peers
Over thin specticals,
As does my mother.
Though those are just for reading.

Portraits of those before me,
Eyes twinkling behind thin rims.

My lenses are the thickest of all.
My eyes
however,
twinkle openly
I see no reason to look older
Than I have to.

But wisdom comes with age
Even as I cling to my childish fantasies,
Whispers of magic,
My own evious glances
At the women before me.

They tutter and toil about,
Their strange lives,
Superstitions haunting their movements
They are born with it,
Surrounded by it.

I,
Who want it most of all,
Lack.

They have their dreams,
And I have mine
But the only magic
I have known,

I have always had to make
Myself.