to drive my daughter through the jeweled morning light this morning:
joy to sigh "What a lovely morning!" and see the glimmer in her eye in the rear-view mirror as our light went green,
and joy to show her how the ochre sunrise hadn't yet washed down from the cross on the steeple at the top of the town.
The temperature was three degrees, the bank sign said. "Wake up, old Mr. Sun," we called as if he were our corner grocer, not the ember burling distant crowns.
A mile we rode in silence while the nickle-purple crystal of the world was poured with light.
I need to think she saw it all as it sped by -- the rink in spun chain link, the outlet mall in mist -- and loved the pinks and golds as I do. She is so young. If I can't train her eyes to love, how else then praise the lapidary, who cuts our days like diamonds from the carbon cold above?
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 . . . ."