In silence we travel;
through the lava beds we wind
wrapped in thought and acid
sweet melody.
Notes play upon my solar plexus,
ripple upward from groin to throat, subtle
waves of energy
keyed to my body like a lover’s hand.
It is my birthday, but we don’t speak of it
yet.
My attention drifts through fog,
seeks threads of blue between stone.
Momentarily I consider breaking
the solitude though it’s not heavy.
It’s the passenger’s obligation to fill the air, isn’t it,
With words?
Amidst the lava a shadow stirs,
shifts into Other shape –
Owl – Woman – Grandmother.
I should not gaze into those dark eyes, or
so I’m told. I cannot fear her still serenity,
or the gathering of life shadows beneath her wings.
Pinioned by love, forgiven for my life’s transgressions
of deeds undone, I
can only hope she will last a lifetime
even as she returns to stone
and mist.
This poem captures the surreal quality of the powerful landscape in which you live and the intimate relationship you have with it on so many levels. I just love it Martha.
Thank you, Joan. I hold onto my writing and art for so long then suddenly get a bursting need to share, I’m not sure which is better -the act of creation or the satisfaction of letting it go. Owl Woman has such a strong grandmother connection for me that it took quite a bit of courage to share this one.