Equinox Equinox The rising of the green. Hidden like the hollow place in the eagle's bone the mountain valley, held, still dark, dripping with winter. Held like a basket of reaching stark limbs, a basket roughly woven, nothing tight, yet still. But something has burst from the vessel in the night, something hardly formed, oozing from the frozen mud breaking away like the nursery of ice on the rivers, birthing, melting, flooding. This is what we know as spring: the ancient bones of winter just beginning to shed nothing sweet or nubile, certainly no green, except, except-- under a root, tiny as the eye of some valuable exotic gem the slightest gesture, a minute thumbnail of growing, unfurling insistence. Probably dandelion, or earliest pasque flower. Maybe the beginnings of yarrow, or the first breath of bluebell in the ancient basket, being gathered by the night giants coming home for Spring. 
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AuthorMarcie Telander is a poet, ritualist and psychotherapist living, in Crested Butte, CO where she writes, serves and celebrates the Mystery in Nature and the Nature in Mystery. ArchivesSpring Equinox |
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