At roseate sunrise, in silence,
you lovingly braid my hair,
tripartite, over, under,
maiden, mother, crone.
The golden rope, frayed, shot with grey,
surely I am the ancient of days.
My breasts are moss-covered stones,
my belly slack and spongy.
But all sorts of clouds have silver linings.
I have grown dense, stubborn, more tender.
I have learned to work outward from a molten core,
coming up from under the crust of the earth
dusted with rice powder and pollen.
Our stained, lumpy bed remains a flowered bridal bower.
You return at twilight, to untwine my braid
and follow its waves to the end of the world
where second sight and liquid dreams abide.
You speak first, with muted calm,
not from inner peace, but from willed need
to gather our disparate selves together.
Ah---that we have come this far.
Childhood tales only begin at happily-ever-after.
Patricia A. Boutilier says: I am a 55-year old wife, mother, granny of 3 living in beautiful, overpriced, Naples, Florida. By day I am a nurse, massage therapist, and Reiki Master. By night, I write for the pure pleasure of language and to express the sacredness of the ordinary. My favorite fruit is the pomegranate: magical, mystical, and delicious.
