Land and water, light and air,
food in ourselves, ourselves in the world,
world in the water.
No mystery, no secret lore.
We have all been ordained,
anointed in the amniotic baptism.
Eostre is a goddess, Astarte going before dawn,
Ostara returning after dusk,
Venus, all one, never far from the sun.
Pocs and bucks and pucas know when she-goats go.
Hares aware of where jackrabbits lay under the hay.
Under the air, over the clay they lay.
Billy Bock is in the earth, Puck is in the land.
The Hare is in the air, her long ears in the wind.
We rise and spin on the eddies, whirling over winter wheat.
Food is promised to the lean, the hard and hollow-eyed.
She-goats fatten and freshen on new grass.
The battle of hares and snares is fought in the marsh-waste.
Horny and hungry, we live on cattail roots, new nettles,
all promises of old goddesses in threadbare gowns,
blood-dyed and patched with gold-braided crosses.
We are of the water, we are of the stars,
burning our hopes on the aura of dawn and dusk
going down to the earth, to the long bones of Abel.
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