For six days, full-throated, they praised the light with speckled tongues and blare of silence by the porch stair: honor guard with blazons and trumpets raised still heralding the steps of those who have not for years walked here but who once, pausing, chose
this slope for a throng of lilies: and hacked with mattock, pitching stones and clods aside to tamp dense clumps of bog-soil for new roots to seize. So lilies tongued the brassy air and cast it back in the sun's wide hearing. So, the pair
who planted the bulbs stood and heard that clarion silence. We've heard it, standing here toward sunset as those gaping, burnished corollas poured their flourish. But the petals have shrivelled, from each crumpled knot droops a tangle of rough
notes shrunk to a caul of music. Extend your palms: you could as well cup sunbeams as pour brim-full again those absent flowers, or touch the quick arms of those who bent here, trowel in hand, and scraped and sifted soil held in a bed of stone.
Photos by the blogger; if you copy, please link back.
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 . . . ."