I threw my horoscope away.
Presence gently overpowered
the moon and stars.
My planets have entered the sign
of Chaos, the house of Poetry.
My chart was full of old stories,
twisted plots that took forever,
distant light that never arrived.
I'm awake, and it is now,
the season of Winter Spring,
hour of no longer and not yet.
What is a goddess, after all?
Entangled root musk, cilia,
network of wombs that bear
loam demons making music

in carillons of snow,
mothering subterranean suns
of the microbiome.
What is a goddess, after all?
She happens when the silence
of my Being permeates

the sod and rain, dissolves

the end in the beginning, skins
away the shivering difference

between darkness and fire.
I’ll wear the tawny still-warm pelt
of time, fur of the turning year.

I’ll scent both pain and beauty
in a single tear, the purple outrage

of a crocus bursting
her cathedral of frost.

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