Her
Described, it is yellow-green which shines about Her. Gold aura flicks around green hair, lotus flower settles on tangled streams. She does not wear make-up. She does not own high-heels or care which pop-stars cheated on each other. She has eyes like a sunset and cheeks that blush dawn, just before the stars fade away. Lips were simple, hair messy and split from end to end on Her head. Her’s was the most ancient of beauties. Her’s was the beauty that our ancestors painted and sculpted and spoke of, but never could they capture. A beauty deep and rich, rooted in the earth and founded by the dirt; no model, no star, no glory, just the simple and most lovely beauty at a women’s core. This is as She has.
There She swings from the tree branch, laughing in the summer air. Hummingbirds buzz by, and bumblebees work hard through the day. The clouds shift over; bunnies and lions, businessmen and elephants, floating in the sky. There She swings, wonderful. Très bonne reve. Rock back and forth, back’a’by baby. Whisk of seeds through the air, let the world grow, let Her shine. She smiles and laughs, swinging from Her treetop.
A picture of oranges, yellows, browns, and reds She paints. She watches the leaves fall. Brisk Autumn air curls up her dress and makes her bare feet shiver. Trick’or’Treat, the children yell into the night, Thanksgiving dinner, Wintertime is almost here.
Winter frost on the window in Marquette, Mi. (photo by Ron Caspi)
There She sings, adrift snowbanks and winter storms; snow angles made in Her favour, snowmen made as Her subjects. “Let’s have a snowball fight,” our daughters and sons ask, with Her in mind. The world is bleak but the snow falls shimmer and glisten on gray days and long nights. Beauty within, beauty only those who listen can see Her make.
Spring flowers push up throught the snow. (photo by Ron Caspi)
Thawing and mucking, longer days and flowers bright, the time of rebirth comes. Watch the sun rise higher and higher as the days become longer and longer. Her time of change, a time shunned for rain and mess but a time which should be praised for within the mess new growth sprouts. Seen as a time of grey day and slush roads, it is this time which means the essence of life. For without nothing is born and within everything created. Beauty where many see none.
Years pass and wonders rise. Kings and queens die, peasants fight and up rise. She watches over and lets live as shall live. She’ll keep us safe. Smoke and bog will not give way to stress, for She does not abandoned Her loved ones. A cigarette bud on forest floor disturbs Her, as this hurts us more than it could ever hurt Her. Express lanes fill with methane, ozone tears around Her, and ocean’s tides wash over with oil spills and trash, pelicans die beside Her. Yet, still she stands strong, loving Her creations despite the hate they give Her. We are at awe of her unconditionalism. We mimic but never achieve. We paint and write and never truly behold. She is the deep rooted beauty which we feel in our bones but never see with our minds. The essence of life, the creation of spirit.
We will never capture Her. Just as scholars of old, my words mean nothing to Her presence, inflict no statement onto Her being. She is unattainable by description, no matter how often described. With an open heart and a child’s mind, the kind She birthed us, we glimpse Her in the world. We see Her sunlight eyes and Her smooth, dark, skin at night. When I sit on the porch, legs stretched and back lain against my mortal walls, I feel her breath gently brushing the hairs on my arm and I hear the sounds of Her voice calling from the treetops. I, as we have the ability to, can let myself go in Her ever giving hugs and I can believe in Her love. Knowing Her flows through my veins, washes over my heart, fills my lungs, and lets my head float above the clouds. For her yellow-green shine, for her golden aura, surrounds us all. She loves, she creates, and she maintains. She is our giver. She is my mother. She is Nature.
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