The light stretched and tangy, up on its horse and riding through the ripening meadows, buzzing the leaves and the birds who’ve been at it for hours. Light that in its excess has become something else. The way Cranberry Falls is so frothed with runoff it doesn’t look like water anymore. The way you look from a hill’s highest point, your head full of chlorophyll, heart shucking winter like a clayload of guilt, like pollen with its open fire policy compensating loss. You exceed yourself, tanked on the light and the birds who’ve been singing forever.
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 . . . ."