In the bare grey branches of the apple tree
high on the sacred mound,
In the patches of pure white snow,
still lying deep in the grass despite all day’s sun,
In the twists and turns of the fallen tree
reaching back into the Earth,
In my hand putting pen to paper,
gloved and warm in the bracing sunshine,
In the curve of the Earth above the mound,
where land ends and deep space begins,
In the last butterfly,
still hunting merrily for blossoms in the cold air,
In my lungs, deep and warm under layers of clothing,
inhaling this sweet and precious air,
Is there anywhere She is not?
Doesn’t She know us in every way?
In the profound quiet of this November day,
halfway to winter, the pure air on my skin,
I have Her, I’m with Her, She moves me,
She impels me to live for Her passionately,
my Queen, my Goddess.
November 9, 2012