Not because it’s Spring
does the body seek
that woman cloaked in shadow, her hair lining the hood
with the same silver
dawn uses to light the sky
and her hands stretched out
ready do dig
under the muscle ‘s loam
exploring vines of vein and artery. No, it’s more about
the art of healing,
planting and weeding whatever she must —
to make the patient mend. Slowly
she moves through the labyrinth of bone,
feeling the lament of limbs.
as they recall what came before.
Nights of movement when the moon appeared
maiden young; and evening invited
a walk along the lake, agility stressing
its own song beneath a chorus of bird and cricket,
the exhale of heather and pine.
Or more deeply felt, those moments of light
distilled into the bloodstream making
the act of waking an act of joy, an impulse to rise
and renew the body with work. Echoes of tenacity
already spun, glittering
along the garden hedge and a window sill
the forest once owned.
Neither goddess nor crone
(as you may have thought) she lives
and has lived in the sprawling vineyards
of our form since birth. Hidden. And on her breath —
the scent of everything green
as she leans over whispering — Body