No golden fleece, apple, parachute, or purse, but that sexy red dress you couldn't afford now on sale, Cape Cod light captured on the artist's easel, a bowl of mushroom barley soup to slurp, and under the sofa the pearl you thought you'd lost, a rule broken without penalty, no need to reap the wild oats you sowed. Each night you ease into dreams, and while you sleep, the skin cream you bought really does erase lines and wrinkles. Outside, goldfinches bright as lemon peels.
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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 . . . ."