She Who Has Earned the Rose

Rye stalks whispering in the tender sun.
We gather, choose and mill.
Shared barns, our sunlit-labour’s fulfilled joy,
A mother feeding mush to her weaned child.
Unless the gods successive havoc wreak
We shall be clean of mildew and of hunger

And the cells sit, silent unchallenged
Until we burn or blanch them.
‘But man he potions brews – for fear
That somewhere there is rot.

Spoilers are they that break the sunbeams open,
And shatter mystery.
But Woman knows that change is power.
That being, under-foot and harrow-held,
A woman knows the spells that challenge anger
That says that every child should be unspoiled.

Mottled with mutability and signs
A hard rind, red as apples that in Hesper dwell
Holding on to a million suns.
Red lucid jewels, the very name of promise
And of pain.

Yet, useless, she breaks out in bright blood and tears
Clean of her heaviness, her mysterious load.
Unbroken, she did not know her promise.
Bereft, she must not seek her gift again.
Pomegranates.
Seeds.
In their bitter juices, each one bursts
A little freedom gone.

Yet the cells sit, in silence
In perfect lineage
Each one a perfect sun in splendour dwells
Though cloaked in this deformity of shame.
Though ratio legis in her ratione personae
These, though rari nantes in gurgite vasto
Rest about her heart.

Tell Nature what she is
We are all guardians of lines unbroken
And mystery, and myth, and love and will.
Rosam quae meruit ferat

 

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