Slicing through the tangles of knotted hair
Selecting straying strands to chop off
Severing words with a mighty pen
Soaking the scars with brushstrokes of
Watercolors developed by
The Divine Artist
The Queen’s Sword
Her instrument of choice
The Spider weaves her web
Not to be torn asunder or endangered
By humans, amazed at her daily rituals
Her mystical arrangements
Her lovely lines and beautiful shapes
Designed to capture her prey
We cut through the clues of
Personal sovereignty
Grasping for written instructions that
Fall from the handbook into raging waters
Re-membering by heart, recalling
The details for transformation
Splintering the myths of time
Clipping off the nodules formed
By dis-ease or despair
Paring down the fleshy skin
That hangs loosely to alter
Aging, distracting from
The wisdom of her elderly Body
The Mystic creates and activates her Soul
In all its glory and amazement
This Soul who has been hiding for years
Wondering when we will come find her
Notice her, view her, bursting with joy
And some distress about how
We live our human lives
Knowing we learn by trial and error
Sad that some mistakes are
So tragically and carelessly enacted
The Sword gleams in her golden sheath
Too risky to touch for fear of disaster
The Queen picks up the Blade
Beheading the withered traditions of old
Fostering new growth, sproutings where
Antique authority has been removed
Watering and tending our gardens
Scythe and shovel alike
Mowing and partitioning off
The mature sections of grass from
The wild, ravenous weeds
We rejoice in throwing wildflower seeds
Into breezes that hold them aloft
Until they land and anchor onto the earth
We water and nurture our plantings and
We mourn the losses of tradition knowing that
They had to be destroyed
Before the new rains of hope and peace
Can wash over our sunny gardens along with
New patterns of physics and
Sacred geometry, the quantum field
Where innocent lambs and tendrils
Wrap their arms and legs around
Each other while being born anew
