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, April 6, 2012

From Back Here

From back here
the headstones are anonymous.
They could be anything;
birdbaths,
garden gnomes,
scattered thickly under the trees.
Another unseasonably warm day.
The sun shines through the bare branches
where the vultures roost
and the squirrels play.
The columns on top Red Hill
are glowing in the winter light.
The sky is blue,
melting from opal and pearl
to robin's egg, china, cobalt,
and indigo.
I'm too old to skip
so I jog a few steps.
I'm too tame to howl
so I smile.
      --Sappho

Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)