There are worlds Aristotle didn’t know
where spirit moves
where myth puts on feathers and language
and meaning wears another face.
In this world
of pine trees
and camus stalks,
the smell of dirt
the salt of sweat
the dry ache of hills and eyes.
Still…if I look
if I lay down “no”
if I turn my eyes from tired, bored, hungry
if I loose my gripping fingers from
mine! mine! mine!
…blue, pink, mariposa lilies slip delicately
between the worlds
rain on the dry hills
and the round doorways of my attention
open into distant forests
where Baba Yaga stirs.
My blood shivers when Baba Yaga stirs
when she steps down from her hunt
onto a thick, wet carpet of leaves,
layers and layers.
My blood rises
when she asks me,
in her implacable voice,
“What have you done with the garden?”
My heart swells with memory and longing
Ah the garden, the garden.
This precious woman self!
I pick up my tools
my feathers and language
I move deeper
©2007 Marilyn Raymond