Winter-Spring


I threw away my horoscope.
My presence gently overpowered
the moon and stars.
My planets entered the sign
of Chaos, the house of Poetry.
My chart was full of old stories,
twisted plots that took forever,
distances of light
that hasn't yet arrived.
I'm awake, and it is Now,
the season of Winter Spring,
the hour of Not Yet.
After all, what is a goddess?
Entangled root musk, cilia,
network of wombs that bear
loam demons making music
in carillons of snow,
subterranean suns
of the microbiome.
The goddess happens
when the silence of my Being
permeates the earth, dissolving
the end in the beginning,
skinning the shivering difference
between darkness and fire,
as I scent both pain
and beauty in a single tear,
this purple outrage,
a crocus bursting
her cathedral of frost.