Heavy curtains close around our golden
Powers. We will wake in the dark noon
And seed quick shadows over the white embers;
We touch the pages; patterns cascade down.
And the folds of our robes fall like water,
Those floating candles swell with secret grain,
And the long-hovering words begin to rain.
Even a book is simple in our folded
World. Though the throne is hidden, the horn-shaped moon
Glows where our feet have touched her. We remember
Pillars opening to petals (they are our own).
Such a quiet birth holds us. Earth’s own daughters,
We keep our wisdom. We carry our own crowns.
Annie Finch’s books include Spells: New and Selected Poems (Wesleyan), The Body of Poetry, and A Poet’s Craft (both from Michigan). Her poems have appeared in the New York Times, Poetry, and The Penguin Book of Twentieth-Century American Poetry. She teaches poetry, meter, and magic at PoetryWitchCommunity.org.
