In red foliage full of guitars The girls' yellow hair blows At the fence, where sunflowers stand. A golden cart drives through the clouds. In the rest of brown shadows The old grow silent [and] embrace dim-wittedly.
Orphans sing sweetly for vespers. Flies buzz in yellow steams. At the brook the women still wash. The hung-up linens billow. The small child, whom I have long liked, Comes again through evening's grayness.
Sparrows fall from mild skies Into green holes filled with rottenness. A smell of bread and harsh spices Feigns recovery to the hungry one.
~Why on Earth is it that I'm drawn to poets who can't be translated?
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 . . . ."