
Your soul
is expressing
itself
inside you
like an underground
river
nourishing
a whole
forest.
Hope is fast approaching.
A moon, pregnant with tears, tunes out.
The sky is a network of long narrow depressions of light.
Soft chuckles and footsteps depart in an exclamation
of dawn stills the laughter.
But you were the belle of the ball,
spinning streaks of your sunny eruptions
on their icy cheeks.
Announcing your name in slow motion:
Dione… Dione… Dione…
Tear-bringer, daughter of the sea, mother of love.
Gaia. Home.