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.

Friday, November 23, 2012

Let Hope Go

Uncurl those grasping fingers
Let hope go
Let that soft blanket slip from around your shoulders
Feel the breeze
It will chill you,
Or warm you,
Or blow you off course
Let hope go
Push aside that embroidered curtain
Look at what is out there
Things you've never imagined,
Or never saw coming,
Or always knew
Let hope go
Watch that iron-clad door open up
To all the possibilities
Or impossibilities
Or to nothing at all
Uncurl those grasping fingers
Let hope go

          ---Sappho---
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