Standing not-so-tall now beside the old house,
Her scars bear witness to attacks she never sought.
Her children are gone now,
Dying young or leaving her. The pain is all the same.

…Many times, long years ago, she had joined in the Dance.
She stretched tall, wearing a dress of softest green.
She twisted and turned and bent and waved her limber arms.

Once she was adored by all who looked upon her.
Once....
When she still held the promise of imagined miracles —
When young men still included her in their plans,
       And little children played and picked flowers at her feet.

The music around her twirls away into the past.
She stands alone now, beside the empty house,
But quitting has never held sway within her soul.

Not until this last, long winter,
When dreams cracked — echoes of the icicles falling around her.
The seeds she scattered have withered,
      and cold winter has stolen away the hope.

But even the cruelest memories can be gentle fingers pushing forward.
Sadness brings tears that nourish dreams.
Loss creates room for something else.
New growth, reaching higher.

But too soon now the memories fade.
In the long, long memory of her heart
The winters become shorter, swifter, harder.

Faith.
Long, slow spirals into forever....
But she cannot bear another wrenching of her spirit,
Cannot withstand another false promise.

Faith.
Memories...
She reaches out her wizened limbs,
Presenting tiny buds seeking the sun,
And once again she dares the Spring to ask for one more dance.

She cradles Her priestess in a bed of downy softness,
Soothing her with breaths of gentle breezes;
Rocking her, gently, asleep in the trusted darkness of the night —
Seeming unending darkness, welcomed respite...

Then she gently rocks the cradle,
“Awaken, my child, my daughter.
“Awaken to my words, awaken and see.”
But in your deep sleep you hear only Her lullaby.

Once-gentle rains now swirl wildly,
Spattering droplets against your swaddling linen.
The sea’s magnificent tides loom high above your pillow.

Again She rocks the cradle,
“Awaken, my child, my daughter, my own.”
You sleep on, transforming the alarming chorus into dream images...

Fires rage relentlessly in the forest,
Lightning flashes and enflames the night .
Rockets of lava careen down the hillsides, racing toward you.
Sleeping, sleeping still.

She urgently rocks the cradle,
“Awaken, my child, my daughter.”
Her warning still remains but an intrusive dream.

The waves rage high above you, far above your sleeping world.
And, too, the lava rises, slipping silently past your pillow.
Flames ride the waves that race toward shore,
      twisting and mixing with the brimstone.

She upends the cradle,
“Awaken, my child, my daughter.”
You pull the comforting blankets over your mouth, your ears, your eyes,
Hiding from the intrusions upon Her lullaby.