Self Portrait In Budapest

It’s hot and I twist

my hair into a bun,
a spiral system
with glints of light.

The wind has other

intentions, and unwinds
my efforts to bind
a long history of red.

Actress, writer, physicist

and  gypsy mid wife,
all descendants rooted
in these strands.

All strong and strangely

beautiful  women. All
Marias and Sophias
who look down
through a shaft of sunlight,
supposing
I will surpass them.

Yet standing

on this bridge, where lions
are winged guardians
of the past

I wonder --
what if I’m possessed
by the commonplace.

A shadow

that makes the water
ripple daily

with  just a girl,
a sea bird
content to drift
and on occasion
dive underneath

for sunken dreams

they once lost,
relinquished. What then --
will the stars withdraw
their patronage?