Priestess of SPRING & New Life

. . .
Pollen & Dust
She is perfume,
and honeydew
Oh the light in her eyes
and the way that she broods

She is the waters edge,
of the rippling stream
and the sunlight on her hair is the colour of the breeze
in the morning
under the dark green fern
she is the song of the waking bird

Oh the mountain, it groans her name
while she holds it,
embraces
and whispers her way to the cavern

Beneath the trees
where the song of the birds are reflected in the leaves
and the water
it rests like mead
in the drip
and silence
by a fire she breathes

For the opening,
and the birth of the bees
and the honey of the fungi breaking through her feet
Oh the mushroom
and the morning dew
she’s disappearing with the moss
on her skin so smooth

Where there’s birthing,
and the flowers bloom
when the air turns to mist with pollen dust plumes
Where the voices,
of the newborns call
Shes a cradle of the sacred
where the sunlight falls
. . .