Magical Truthsaying Bastard Shadesong (shadesong) wrote,
Magical Truthsaying Bastard Shadesong
shadesong

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Wind Tunnel Dreams: Month of Myth

She meets me at the gates,
pulls me from the earth,
my silken skirts catching like roots
in the cold, soft clay
of the underworld.

It gets everywhere -
under my fingernails,
in the seams of my shoes,
in my hair.


She washes my hair,
combs out the last bits of clay,
washes from me
the perfumes of below.
She braids my hair,
braids in early blossoms
that bloomed just for my return.

There are no flowers, under.
There are jewels that sparkle
all the colors of flowers
in the cave walls,
clasped to my ears and wrists,
in the hollow of my throat
never warming to my skin.


She gives me a hat
(I am too pale
and it is too bright up here,
so bright to eyes accustomed to
the flicker of candles on the banquet table)
and puts me to work in the garden.
Spring planting.
My mother and I,
side by side,
quiet, for I am always quiet at first.
Our hands in rich warm crumbling black soil,
the best kind
for growing things.

It is so warm, the soil
and I press my hands into it,
feel that,
feel the sun warm my skin.

My mother grounds me
the best way she can.

Later, there are apples
drizzled with honey -
simple fare after
elaborate meals of reductions and glazes
and chilled wine made of fruits
my mother holds no dominion over;
the food is sharp and well-spiced, but

my mother's food is
warm from the ground
or fresh from the trees.

I bite into an apple,
closing my eyes
to draw in the taste,
and if I crave the tang
of a pomegranate,
I will never tell her
.









This one jumped in fully formed as I was lying slugabed and wishing for a real spring.
Tags: wind tunnel dreams
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