At last again she sings to me,
Her whispers rising low above the trees,
Rounded, leafy, malachite and jade
Shading walls of slate, snaking through the woods,
Separating ancient fields
now reclaimed in service of the spirit elders of the land.
Their voices blend with Hers in chant,
Plainsong services still heard in stony shrines
accompanied by dances of a resinous perfume
circling the columns holding arches pointed at the sky.
Sweet sounds caress my ears and rub across my temples
Like fingers, painting images of lavender and berries,
Artichoke and olive,
on serving bowls of creamy colored clay,
Bearing sustenance that I may also sing.
(digital montage over watercolor)