Your lynx-eyes, Asia, spy on my discontent; they lure into the light my buried self, something the silence spawned, no more to be endured than the noon sun in Termez. Pre-memory floods the mind like molten lava on the sands . . . . as if i were drinking my own tears from the cupped palm of a stranger's hands.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."