life yanked through time like the garden hose
wrangled by mom to the flower garden.
there she stood at soil’s edge, summer-long, a priestess.
i swear, while she stood arms dark under sun’s strong life,
the insects swarmed toward her as if dancing to some song,
not threatened by the spray, nor in her presence frantic,
but aware of who and what she was: Priestess, life-giver,
image-bearer; her garden a womb.
and the sun beamed and glowed
off of glassy beads of hose water sitting atop
garden's green. and she stood there imputing miracle
in the glow of that sun,
as if in a chamber of light,
like a temple.
Cover Image by Irina Iriser