The Priestesses tend to us, clear the paths
for the taking up of our skirts,
each of us a bit holy.
My sisters parade as silk flags,
the carousel of June.
We welcome each new bud
our names held with reverence:
Companion of Serenity, Prairie Moon,
Honey Gold, Bowl of Love.
The Priestesses name constellations
for us, flower galaxies dropped petals
dried to stardust.
They collect our stories, the laughter of Paean,
the human need to know origin beyond stem,
all dirt eventually overturned
but we billow in rain
and ritual rising, all perennial
thought for the present––
Our mythology is that of summer breeze,
our history always returns to seed.
