by Roger Fritz, 10-13-93
Yesterday arrives in the form of an afternoon fog.
We put on our clogs and walk through it to the
Torches flare, and the goddess looms,
a hundred feet high.
Pale as wind, blue as forget-me-nots,
she is somber and detached, foreign as the desert winds,
and familiar as our hands.
We throw garlands, and they sail past her.
Her eyes part the clouds,
and she strides through our landscape,
her feet planting gardens in the future, and
her hem sweeping nightmares from dreamers.
The children wake in the night,
and hear her heatbeat like a distant train running
on golden rails.
The stars in her flesh and in her hair
pull them out of their bones
and out of their thoughts,
and slingshot them into a lake of amber joy.
They wash up on the beaches toward morning,
smiling the way infants smile,
their eyes empty of anything but mystery.
And they wiggle toward their bodies like giggling grunion,
come back from the moons and tides, and still
yearning for the black depths in the
currents of the goddess.
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