Shapeshifter

Prehistoric prototype 
Of cloudy crystal balls. 
Silver apple, overripe 
And aching for the fall. 

Keyhole in the door of night. 
Glass in which the sun
Combs it’s locks of golden light, 
Belinda-like, till dawn. 

Will-o’-the-wisp, enticing poor
Lost travelers to try 
To warm their waning hopes at your 
Pale fire, to watch them die. 

Nightlight for a frightened child. 
Wheel of aging cheese. 
Cheshire cat’s narcotic smile, 
Beaming pointlessly.