The tigerlily comes and goes,

fierce with grace and

roaring like a sun

The Goddess invokes a life-sprouting spell.

“Let there be light.”

The daffodils answer like delicate, unfolding suns,

warmed and held in Her body of soil. These cycles of being,

Her rays grace our features−the cradle of winter behind us.

Our Mother,

Who is everywhere,

Blessed be they names.

Get ready for roaring.

Get ready for teeth.

Furious, powerful,

Proud Lioness.

In my dreams,

the women are drumming

their waters are rising

silver and wild.

Bathed in words

she glanced within

and grinned.

Let that word hold your hand

flowing like deep water

dreaming of soft birds.

She is transcendental mist,

the glow between the veils

In my dream, I met an oak tree who saw everything.

The oldest mother in the endangered world.

She still felt the blood of life deep in the soil.

“There are things worth growing for,” she said to me.

In 1908, when Emily Carr painted the First Nation totem poles in British Columbia, she heard their strong talk roaring across the wild beaches. They were still speaking their truth even though they’d been wind beaten and faded, even though many were abandoned. This was forever strong talk. 

To be woman

Is the flowing strength

Surrender

The soft inner touch of the spark

Meets the ancient turn of grace

Her songs are earth deep mantras calling names of constellations into being.

Her light soaked in, released the magic pine and herbs.

All those folded flowers lifted up their sacred prayers - water, light, dirt, love.

Writing her dreams

I follow her in.

She craves the old path

Coyote, crow, fox.

The tricksters are at it

again.

Dreaming takes down

The light curtain

Bathes us with visions of pregnant earth

Her life, her dreams

Meditation

not like a dream

but a gentle way

you hold yourself