Saturday, May 15, 2010

Queen of the Hill

Often I Am Permitted To Return to a Meadow

as if it were a scene made-up by the mind,
that is not mine, but is a made place,

that is mine, it is so near to the heart,
an eternal pasture folded in all thought
so that there is a hall therein

that is a made place, created by light
wherefrom the shadows that are forms fall.

Wherefrom fall all architectures I am
I say are likenesses of the First Beloved
whose flowers are flames lit to the Lady.

She it is Queen Under the Hill
whose hosts are a disturbance of words within words
that is a field folded.

It is only a dream of the grass blowing
east against the source of the sun
in an hour before the sun's going down

whose secret we see in a children's game
of ring a round of roses told.

Often I am permitted to return to a meadow
as if it were a given property of the mind
that certain bounds hold against chaos

that is a place of first permission,
everlasting omen of what is.

--Robert Duncan

Something beautiful was born in this meadow last night. I was so honored to be there to witness it come into the world. The whole world rejoices when we are brave and follow our hearts deep into the mystery of creation, placing our trust in love. Blessings on you Jamie and Peter, united in this meadow in that magic hour before the sun went down.

It's really quite simple, but the path to arriving can involve a lot of thorns and poison ivy, which Jamie and I walked through as we came over the hill and down to the hollow where Peter was waiting. Poison ivy means pay attention, Maria said as we walked back up the hill carrying our smudge, feathers, and flutes after the ceremony. I thought of her words this evening as I wandered in search of dinner, moving slowly through the vines with thorns, avoiding the shiny red leaves of poison ivy. I reached down to the earth slowly, carefully cut milkweed shoots so as not to cut any grass, let the ones with tiny vines wrapped around them be. I parted the long grass around the curly dock plants growing close to the stonewall and picked the smallest, most delicate leaves. And I picked what will probably be the last asparagus of the season, which I plan to eat tonight, roasted simply with olive oil and sea salt. Right before I left I saluted one wild stalk at least three feet high which was about to burst into seed. Queen of the Hill. A dream of the grass blowing.










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