High on the Sacred Mound

In the bare grey branches of the apple tree
     high on the sacred mound,
the Goddess.

In the patches of pure white snow,
     still lying deep in the grass despite all day’s sun,
the Goddess.

In the twists and turns of the fallen tree
     reaching back into the Earth,
the Goddess.

In my hand putting pen to paper,
     gloved and warm in the bracing sunshine,
the Goddess.

In the curve of the Earth above the mound,
     where land ends and deep space begins,
the Goddess.

In the last butterfly,
     still hunting merrily for blossoms in the cold air,
the Goddess.

In my lungs, deep and warm under layers of clothing,
     inhaling this sweet and precious air,
the Goddess.

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.

Annelinde Metzner
November 9, 2012