Priestesses

Oh, dear Priestesses
of March winds and April rains
what may we offer you
for her whom you serve
for the sun
the waking earth
the return of birds
their song
their beauty
such life, exploding
in warmth and gold and orange and green …
and yellow and purple and …

we deserve it not
who plunder this world and wound and rape and kill in ignorance
at best, at worst … in willful spendthrift grisly splendor

you
dancing in the wind
draped in white raiment
drenched in water
edges luminescing in the waking sun
your sweet faces,
alien,
edged in copper fire and
ghostly tuberous eyes
arrest mine
kindly

striving to find words
i find i cannot explain
my gratitude at your return
my grief in loss
my joy in your presence
the multitude of all our lives
all our springs and summers and autumns and winters
we understand so little
we who insist we have brains and language and purpose

and memory … what is memory?

we have nothing so precious as you
this moment
now

thank you.