The bite of fresh compost,
sharp leaf mold in the wind.
Goodbye to the galax,
farewell to the creeper,
“Adios” to the chokecherry vines.
It’s the majestic farewell,
the queen’s farewell.
It’s delicious, it’s numinous, it’s forever!
This is the goodbye of no tears but the rain’s.
Goodbye as relaxed as Guernseys in the alfalfa,
as relaxed as three women in a hot tub.
It’s goodbye, never more be seen,
and it smells like Paris perfume.
It lifts the feet. It’s Fred Astaire.
It’s a lilting “adieux.” It’s bagpipes.
It’s all the cousins waving.
Orange, red, a fandango,
it’s forever, it’s the end,
and if you twirl and spin your way down,
you’ve got the idea.
Annelinde Metzner
Phoenix Cove
September 2001
America has a choice, and it’s black and white.
No woman this time, for President,
(but our time is coming soon.)
Even so, who loves the Woman?
Whom do you choose?
Which of the men loves hierarchy,
loves to be on top,
must be the top,
feels entitled to own the world,
to govern women’s bodies?
(And we know the World and the Woman are the same.)
America has a choice, and it’s black and white.
Which of the men loves and respects Woman,
seeks what we think,
knows our bodies are ours to govern,
expects us to own power, the world over,
meets us on the World’s stage as equals?
Who will champion us to love whomever we will?
Who will let the soft side rule, let Woman rule,
and allow Love and Community to return?
Who would rather align the world by rank, with him on top,
sanctioned by the wrathful god,
narrowing and narrowing our choices until we all choke?
America has a choice, and it’s black and white.
Annelinde Metzner
October 18, 2012
Holle
The hard wind tearing through the Nantahala Forest
is the big swift hand of Grandmother,
getting crumbs off the table, thoughtlessly,
readying for the next thing, washing clothes or serving soup.
In the hollow, under the cold wind, you are the crumb!
You may like it here, but you’re gone!
Loud and long the fierce winds howl through the deep forest.
She brushes Her hand, and ancient oaks crash, obedient to Her will.
The Rhododendron stands patient through eons and eons,
accustomed to the Grandmother’s whims.
Her brown and mossy stems meet and turn exquisitely,
solid, rooted, yet reaching for air,
a ballet on the brown forest floor.
Her leathery broad leaves are good for all winter,
each whorl of leaves a brilliant, fleeting thought.
They call this Rhododendron Hell:
Hell, Holle, the Holy, the One Who Lives Death.
Plants and animals die here, ecstatic
to feed Her, to become the next thing.
I, too, would die for Her, here at Her feet in the Nantahala Forest.
“Guten abend, guten Nacht,” sings Grandmother,
tucking me in as I dissolve into nutriment.
Here at Holle’s side, Her perfect whorls elegant,
I’d wash into dirt at the first icy rain, rejoin the family of all being,
sing the green songs of the ages.
Fierce winds tear through here, uprooting oaks.
I sleep at Her feet until whenever She needs me.
Annelinde Metzner
Rattler's Ford, Joyce Kilmer Forest
October 29, 1995
We’re going to the City, we would say,
all of fourteen and thrilled to the core.
My world, my growing up in New York.
Out in the boroughs, quiet, same,
a drone’s life, just enough money to live.
But get on the bus, get on the train,
and Eureka! It’s Manhattan.
Up the subway steps and out into the air.
You never know what might happen!
Every step is an adventure, we learned,
every street corner a new world,
every turn opening a thousand possibilities.
Who will you be tomorrow? Who are you today?
Wearing Nana’s old fur coat,
dragging and torn, over my jeans,
I scooted between moving cars, and up into the air.
Open, worlds! Open, my mind!
What could be next? The world my chocolate box,
tripping up and down the streets,
magic afoot in the City.
Annelinde Metzner
Larchmont, New York
October 2, 2012
