There are words in the wood,
The trees hang on lightly to the snow
And whisper it with soft inspiration
Into their roots. Three
hawks
Come in mourning light, bearing
Messages from the west.
Ostara waits with daffodil scent,
I know what
She holds in her little silver box.
I have waited for so long and Eostre
is sneaking up, all blinking eyes and
puckered lips. Eggs slipping into nests.
She is quick in the quickening.
The eagle lifts, in magic and majesty,
Southern wings, heading towards
The northern light ~
There is a strong urge in the remembering ~
I am the seraphim drawn in a minor key,
But even with that, light seeps through
The seams. I am carbon-infested bones,
Stardust swirling through my blood
Stream. I have been fitted for a black,
Satin hat - by a strange, sweet man - he is red and
Yellow, just a pinch mad. He has been through
the flame and he carries my locket name.
I tie scarlet scarves
the flame and he carries my locket name.
I tie scarlet scarves
Around my stitched on head, and
No one thinks twice about it ~
Even as the seamstress considers
How to re-attach such things ~ I dance
In knitted-lace dreams, with the back and
Forth sway of peacock feather promises –
Picking up tiny metal numbers from the ghost
Infested floor ~ 2’s and 0’s, 1’s and 3’s
I know the mountain has me in her mind’s
Eye, I can feel her breath against the back
Of my broken heart, she is clearing out
A womb room, in the middle of her own
Heart, and she is calling in the strong man with
Dark wings, he holds space at the entrance
As I journey into her center . . . I have work to do.
|
Post a Comment