Gathering the dead branches at dusk,
The woman bends and brushes
The weeds with her fingertips,
Smiling at their tenacity,
Survivors, thrivers --
Impossible to kill --
She lays the branches
Out on the ground,
In a five-pointed star,
Wondering when the skygods
Will spot it, or if they will come
In time for her to see.
So much life in these dead branches,
She picks off the bark
Where insects have foraged.
Piling high the pinecones
In the star's center,
She lights the fire --
Dazzled by the puffing myrrh --
And beside the flames,
Spreads herself
Like a five-pointed star
Surely her milky whiteness
Will be seen, she whispers
"See me here, see me,
Use me, please..."
The raccoons gather
To watch the cones explode
And crackle,
Enjoying the startle,
Hugging each other,
While sparks maneuver
Their way
To the sky...
~V~
