Mother of the Maize

She rises from the corn--
Silken hair wrapped around golden, dreaming teeth
rows of endless, spiraling beginnings,
and endings, and journeys built on fire--

She is the flame of sun beating down on the field,
pushing through her womb, begging
grow grow grow my sweet children of the corn!

What joy the rain she sends
thundering in her pivotal dance
cracking the sky open, scattering
the seeds

In my Wisdom all is born,
all dies renews and lives,
all bears fruit and the
righteous is the poor man
plowing the field, setting the
seeds into my blood and bones

Mercy, I am Mother!

I am the tall stalks dancing;
a breathing field of butterflies singing
Holy, Holy, Holy--

I live in mud and form
the footprints of the eternal;
where I am buried under I
poke through the cracks and become
a strange flower in cement cities
and plastic porches

Stare into my eyes, if you can,
without blinking--