Steeping Tea

Early on, the oils poured themselves from the
heart of the Divine Mother into the prophet.

The fauna of the Divine Mother
was a rising neckline of moons;
the soft starlit road, a pearl necklace.
The prophet followed each jade beaded
glimmer of her woodland broach—
the river ran blue in her veins,
a well of tested alkalinity
was the depth of her well arranged soul.

It was the wood and the mother who taught her
to gather the edible plants, to live outdoors;
salmonberries and nettle, comfrey and cedar,
simmer-sear the herbs, boiling,
the deep throated growl of the wilds untamed—
but the mother was always near,
dimmer-dear the call of the steep forest paths,
infusing mint to oils over the fire in a glass bath.

Emily Isaacson 

No comments: