Rainbow Spray

Illustration by Jon Juarez

Illustration by Jon Juarez

My future people⠀
Blood of my blood⠀
The sprouted seeds of a vision⠀

They pledge allegiance to the sun⠀
Hands held over their hearts⠀
Humming in gratitude with the plants ⠀

Naked volunteers lay upon the smooth sand of a high tide⠀
Feeling salt on their skin—⠀
A lesson on shimmering⠀

On any Midsummer's night I might find⠀
Virgins seated upon stones⠀
Teaching their bright bodies ⠀
The silence of cold⠀

Veiled acolytes kneel close to the ground⠀
Lighting lanterns ⠀
Receiving communications ⠀
from a glow they know to be holy⠀

A distant and anxious lover sit in contemplation⠀
Regarding the Phalaenopisis, temperamental orchid⠀
Admiring its ephemeral elegance ⠀

A people in good standing with the earth ⠀
A people in good standing with the stars⠀
A people in good standing with all things beautiful⠀

I drink the water escaping from this dam ⠀
Pressing my face close to these miraculous cracks⠀
Bathing in the rainbow spray

I am thirsty like you ⠀
For the kind of water⠀
That runs free⠀

 

Heliotrope

Painting by Susan Boulet

Painting by Susan Boulet

An excerpt telling the story of Clytie’s love, her rejection by the sun-god Helios, and her transfiguration into a plant…

“The god of light no longer visited Clytie, nor found anything to love in her, even though love might have been an excuse for her pain, and her pain for her betrayal.

She wasted away, deranged by her experience of love. Impatient of the nymphs, night and day, under the open sky, she sat disheveled, bareheaded, on the bare earth.

Without food or water, fasting, for nine days, she lived only on dew and tears, and did not stir from the ground. She only gazed at the god’s aspect as he passed, and turned her face towards him.

They say that her limbs clung to the soil, and that her ghastly pallor changed part of her appearance to that of a bloodless plant: but part was reddened, and a flower like a violet hid her face. She turns, always, towards the sun, though her roots hold her fast, and, altered, loves unaltered.”

— Ovid, Metamorphoses (Bk IV: 256-273)