The horizon is a window of dreams
as spring storms carry her towards us,
her blue bells drooping in the mist.
She is flaxen skin sown by the wind
her ghostly eyes that a river revives,
and limp hair of pond-drenched weed.
She is cabbage moth, uneven powder
all velvety fluttering into darkness.
Her lips are dropped, full raspberries
into a bush of thorns, where she bled.
She blows dry and silent in autumn,
her tears are the warm spring rain.
All summer she sleeps so deeply
and in the snow she is holy again.
Her frail head will only lift in spring
when the new sun dries her tears.
Her small pale face will only shine
when the blue birds return at dawn.
Her falling tears rearrange ponds
as a dusk frog sings in reflections
of gentle summer rains to come.
She is cupped-flower, meadow sweet.
In storms she is our torrential grief.
And when the land is parched and dry
she retreats inside our deep well.
She is the greeness of our beingness.
In the sheltered glistening clearing,
the birds slip through her branches.
We will teach each other how we love,
braiding seasons into songs, continuous.
Her crying place is a sweetening field,
glistening moistures connecting flowers.
Her head is hanging like a bumble bee
bum-up, inside a golden velvet buttercup.
