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.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

But Then

Suddenly
a flash
a cold shudder
a blinding light
I see the truth
I am a speck
clinging to a spinning ball
hurtling through space
All is lost
There is no hope
I see the truth

But then

Suddenly
a soft breeze
warmth
the smell of sagebrush
I see the truth
I am one of a multitude of specks
clinging to a beautiful blue spinning ball
hurtling through wide open star speckled space
I have nothing to lose
I hope
I see the truth

          --Sappho
Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)