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.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Panic

My chest is full of broken glass
and shattered mirrors,
sharp edged
chaos
Breathe
Let the colors come into focus
pink
crystal
silver
Breathe
Let the jagged edges align
into
pinwheels
Breathe
Let the pinwheels still themselves
and become
flowers
Breathe
and the flowers
are pressed under glass
Settled
into a window
with the sun shining through
----Sappho
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1 comment:

  1. CherylApril 9, 2012 at 3:39 PM

    Such a beautiful poem, Pat. It honors the glass. Thank you!

    ReplyDelete

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