Wrinkled petals hang toward the earth,
fleshy leaves are speckled with the color of ground,
a scrawny stem stands bent and tall,
the bloom is left only in Her eyes,
but what power the memory of budding carries.

The ignorant see withering,
dried up, used up,
an empty gourd with no meat.
Those with eyes open see stories,
storms and sunshine,
seedling and flower,
a garden waiting to be read at the crossroads.

So listen for the dogs of winter
when each of us will walk with three legs
and reap the wisdom planted in Her faces
of past, present and future.

March 16, 2004
Tressa Lee Breen

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