A poem I stumbled across in an older journal, written earlier this year, at midnight.
When she ventures too far,
the Mother in her awakens with a loud roar that loosens the earth,
that frightens roots and bark.
The Child is near to soul-ground,
but also the edges.
Near here, there’s an old woman
watching
who is a wolf;
a leaf that is poison;
a frog that can speak.
We know the way but she does not.
She wants to love, to birth, to eat
she wants to trust the forest in its entirety.
Yet here,
no thing is without shadow.
and there are places she’d never come back from
there are fires that burn to marrow
and hissing grandmothers, low to the ground
and fir that tangles her up and knots her hair to branches
until she hangs like a pendulum, bare Inanna.
The Mother knows the ins and outs
and when she ventures too far
and seeks the dark thing
the Mother becomes an ocean of rage
and so much love
bright lioness –
no evil thing may take my daughter
all lurking things to fear
this force of mother’s love.
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