Regeneration by Annelinde Metzner

This time one year ago, our world here in Appalachia seemed like it hadn’t changed in a thousand years.  The giant, churning, awesome power of Hurricane Helene had not yet whipped our waters into a frenzy, and caused the mountains to slide downhill, carrying our lives away.  And yet, from just below the earth’s surface, Spring reappears with all Her perseverance, Her steadfastness, Her fertile abundance.  The slow, steady regeneration of our Mother inspires me to keep going, day by day, hour by hour.

Primavera

The newness of Spring, Primavera,
”first green,”
soft petals that banish Winter’s icy grip,
the return of the Galax, the trillium,
the return!
Full-blown rebirth,
bright, brilliant green shining in the sun,
Spring!
Rebirth decked out like a debutante
with a roomful of courtiers,
flipping the world from darkness to light.
Ferns unfurl,
fiddleheads play on the forest floor,
insects awaken and buzz 
in a hundred keys of life.
Humans awaken too, reminded once more
of the richness of the return.
A breeze blows over the galax,
the Mayapples spread their elegant leaves
The promise of the Great Mother:
we will begin again.

My Luna

In Appalachia, water is everywhere.
Icy-fresh water from the ancient ones
waltzes with gravity, skirting the stones,
forming waterfalls tiny and huge.
I think of the rush of the water, roaring still,
even while I sleep, 
even as the world stumbles
into the next day, and the next.
And in the marshes, the brackish water,
half fresh, half salt,
is gravity’s playmate too.
Pulled by the moon, our blood like the tides,
we humans made of water are waltzing,
women’s blood pulled inward or away
with the waxing and the waning of the Moon.
The Moon!  My Luna,
who every woman feels and owns.
We don’t need a rocket ship to know Her,
to be swept away by Her,
swept off our feet,
waltzing the light fantastic.
By the way, She is mine, La Luna.
She is all of ours, we women.
For Her we invented calendars and calculations.
For Her we attune to the larger rhythms,
drawn up to Her like the tides,
and back down again.
Stay off my Moon!  She is not to be conquered.
Trespass not on Her queenly face,
or be afraid!

Metaphor

It’s a March day, not warm yet-
The chill breeze has me in sweaters still.
But in my little flower bed, life stirs!
Everywhere, daffodils burst forth,
nodding their heads in orange, yellow and white.
Among last year’s dry leaves,
green pushes out, bold and confident.
Lenten roses, tulip buds,
peony stalks like voluptuous red asparagus.
Here and there, a primrose,
lemon balm, anise and mint.
The perfect shapes of bleeding hearts,
my Grandmother’s favorite.
Delightful after winter’s long inward turning,
each green being comes forth waving,
like a long-lost friend.
Is there a metaphor here?
Everything we’ve planted can be reborn.