cluster at the campfire of my imagination;
at my dining room table, drinking cups of tea;
on the balcony under a cloud of sage and laughter.
flowers & wisdom braided into their tresses,
beads & birds nesting in their curls. That
is where the magic is,
the steam and spells
that make men lose their senses.
Ungroomed and unbelted, it flows
down their backs like memories.
And they have sat here for centuries, telling stories.
They are the vessels of the past.
They are the cups that pass from generation to generation.
I push my hands into soft dough,
make matzo balls, and feel the thread of time,
the gold that weaves the fabric, linking
centuries of Jewish women.
But there are stories and traditions older than this,
things that Sarah learned at her mother's knee,
things not of the heaven but the earth,
deep to the core,
back before God was male,
before when God was female,
before it was even God,
before it was nature,
when it was what it was.
I work my way up the chakras,
see where the weakness lies:
my energy is high up; it is
in my heart and creativity,
even reaching spirit.
And that is the place to aim for,
but you must know where you come from.
A tree with shallow roots can't reach high or strong.
There are secrets we have forgotten,
but they whisper
in the long hair at our backs
walk through my imagination
slowly, bearing gifts.
They are my teachers,
the mothers of the temple.
It is time to learn their names.