When my home was made in the wind
in owl-silence, as patient as the planets,
black calla lilies grew upon my grave
where Hera's spilled drops transformed.
I had a million sisters, the scattered stars,
a sibling mobile telling night-stories
as I slept on the silver surface of a stream.
My mother was the moon; my father flame.
Black calla lilies grow upon my grave,
where I was born into flesh, a sentient stone.
I wandered off, unattended or so it seemed,
and made my home in sand and sorrow.
Like a branch in the rain, my body grows
heavy, a stiff cocoon my winding sheet.
Below me, the black calla lilies watch
as if I were now the sister-star singing.
Where is the wind where I made my home?
Where the owl-silence and the patient planets?
By day my father whittles, by night my mother shines,
whispering, " 'Calla' means 'beauty' dear child--
Come home to the lilies, to the wind, and to us."
________
for What's Going On? --"say it with flowers"
Music: Ane Brun All My Tears
