silent, silvered by
the edge-waters of thaw
that pool underneath --
unseen, the deep rising
and wet, the mud of love
and death clinging, rank
with the scent of rot
and birth, the bulb that
bursts into flower at
her touch as she rises --
but not yet, not yet.
she does not leave mushroom
halls, the pale snake of
roots, the trees underneath
branching into the black
she does not leave, for
there is her heart, in
the gleam of the gem-vein
the crown of her lover
holy and black. give garlands
and time, foot-stamping and
joy, seeds uncounted and
the red flesh of pigs
for a dowry hidden
in her mother's deep breast --
lament and wedding hymn
as a torch lights the deep
and the Bright Headband leads.
but now is not yet, and
the soil does not sleep.
she is a serpent coiled
and tense with waiting
flitting from love to love
a pendulum gliding
in its silent arc