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.

Saturday, September 29, 2012

What Hope?

In the springs and summer of my life
there were many hopes and dreams.
Some of them came true, others not.
But I lived life, a good life,
and the years went by--much too quickly.
Now, with time running down
I find myself in the fall of my life,
and my hope is that my life has had value,
because I have tried to fight the good fight.
          --Lucretia

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