Her name is Datura.
Delicate fluted deep-throated trumpets open to
humming honey bees and summer rains.
She communicates through scent.
In the fall I collect her sharp-needled pods.
They rattle like dry bones.
I chill them.
In the spring I coax seeds to sprout
wrapping each in papery white cloth,
sing love songs – siren calls
to rouse each root from winter’s sleep.
I am patient…
a woman in waiting for the heat of the sun
to unfurl the mystery of becoming
that is re-acted in spring.
Only seeds know when to swell and burst.
Continue reading “Emergence: Poem to a Plant Goddess by Sara Wright”
Feminism and Religion 