Johanna's Labyrinth

Johanna's Labyrinth

Big winds the other night!
     forty miles per hour,
     and today the labyrinth's sand paths
     are gilded with branches and twigs,
     offerings of our Mother.
I begin my walk through the winding paths,
     gathering the brittle birch twigs as I find them,
     stopping every few feet to add to my armload.
Sunshine glistens on the offering-stones.
A mild Spring breeze, a zephyr,
     stirs and twists the prayer flags in the trees.

("I like yer towels," said my neighbor Flonnie,
     at my nearby home in Reems Creek,
     as she settled on my porch beneath Tibetan flags.)

I step around the labyrinth, picking up twigs,
     depositing another armload on the pile.
This is familiar, this service, this quietude.
I am an old monk in a Spanish cloister,
     sweeping leaves on a day just like today.
I am a young novice, breathless with anticipation,
     planting lavender in Sappho's garden.
I am a nurse's aid in a New York hospital,
     washing out my mask for the hundredth time.
My footsteps ground me, slow me, connect me.
Dakinis appear in the clear, clean, almost cloudless sky.
My footsteps kiss the earth.
Oh, to be alive this day!
     each footstep giving thanks.

Annelinde Metzner
April 11, 2020
Weaverville

Twig pile

  

Prayer flags

  

Labyrinth and house