The first lines of this poem were in my head for nearly a month before the entire poem collected itself enough to tell me what it was, right on Ostara. And then it did so in the middle of an all night programming stint. What a time to be writing poetry!

I have painted my feet silver in the streams
Where the light of the moon gave them their lightness
I have followed the paths through the forest of pine
And brushed the scent into my hair with my hands
I have sung to the sound of the crickets in summer
Pouring their music into the tracks of the sky

I have stood under thunderous rainstorms
As they washed scent through my soaked shirt
I felt the damp earth cling to my bare soles
Where the trees did not drink in faster than I
I dream in the mists that circle my window
Where the beech tree sports orioles and ravens

I have danced my way toward you in bluelight
Brightness fires light my eyes into grey-wishing
I speak for the earth with her gaze toward the sky
Hearing velvet that is the voice of thunderous love
I can see into the pool that blinks moonlight and star
There is elderberry feyness in the grail of my hands.

I have spoken to snowfall when she was far away
Her voice is the silence you hear under fir
I have striped with the Serpent who bites the earth
And felt the rush of his power strike me stone
I have kited the winds playing tag with the clouds
When I braided my hair into memory for love.

© Anne Cross, 1997