THE WOMEN gather under the trees.
They bring gifts, food, and chairs.
They are gypsies and queens, oracles, saints,
Jezebels and jesters, healers, sages, and warriors.
And when the circle is complete, the magic begins.
Shyly, with dainty movements, they take turns,
shifting aside their robes to expose
missing limbs and gaping wounds.
The others gather close and peer, heads cocked,
eyes straining, and they chant,
"That is lovely, that is good,"
and the wounds stop weeping,
and they melt into scars,
silvery and light and beautiful.
Then the women lean back and laugh,
and they stretch, sensual and fierce,
like cats in the sun.

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Sonnet for February

Hopeful earth dappled
with white snow in a
gray-brown world,
yet crocus push forth
and smile.
Misty blue skies,
crisp, bleak rays of sun
no warmth, no relief,
yet snowdrops push forth
and smile.
Barren trees, spiny branches
bend in the wind
icy air, chills
yet daffodils push forth
and smile.
Shorter days
pass in single file
bringing hope
as tulips push forth
and bring smiles.
-----Scheherazade

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