We sit cross-legged on the desert hard-pack
our knees pointing in fleshy arrows
East
and West.
Your headdress ripples in the air’s hot breath
lichen
feathers
bone and blood.
“Child,” you say, one finger stirring the red dust between us.
I tremble
and the wooden husk around me cracks.
A three-year-old’s laughter bubbles up from
forgotten safe-keeping
and wets the parched earth.
“Mother,” you say, your finger carving circles in the soft mud.
I rise from the stiff petals to gather in the laughter
and take, instead, a child.
Like cottonwood seed her hair drifts across the breeze
to kiss my cheek.
She fits snugly on my hip.
“Woman,” you say, your eyes bright in our thin shadow.
The ground shudders
and I feel the pulse through my feet
up my thighs.
The pull of Earth and Moon echoes deep within, joining me
to the ancient Seas
to the Goddess.
I step out of the broken hull, stoop, and touch the heaving ground.
Corn springs from the mud at my fingers
shooting across the moist land unto the horizon.
The child laughs
and chews a tender leaf.
“Heroine,” you say, cornsilk now added to your headdress.
The child’s arms circle my neck as we turn
and walk into the welcoming corn.
October 26, 1990
Apr 19, 2014 @ 16:32:09
Beautiful, my friend. Hope you are having a lovely weekend.
Hugs from Ecuador,
Kathy
Apr 19, 2014 @ 21:01:29
It’s a holiday weekend here, and those are always difficult. But the weather is mild and the stars are out tonight. The cats and I are sniffing at the window.