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
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