Green candle, flicker brightly
on the third eve of Crow’s moon.
Herald the return of geese,
the steady lengthening of sky.
Prayers, stay golden soft.
Murmur liquid-thin and
watchful melodies to echo
through the rooms in this house.
The African violets stir;
the seed of this body stretches
from the navel. Now it sleeps.
Now it is alert, coiled, craving
release. Windows beckon light, and
through them infant tendrils dream of
their launch to the sun, of wrapping
themselves around the heat of waiting days.