Three nights we awaken and see the full moon
sinking slowly through branches of the oak.
Days bring thunderstorms, then the soft sounds
of water continuing to drop from leaves after
clear blue sky returns. No one cuts the buds
or full roses from the garden before the storm.
We make a quiet circle, saying the names of no
goddesses we do not know, only our own
secret names welling up from our starry centers.
What ripple will these names effect when
read in remote corners, in otherwise wordless
glades, under plum trees heavy with fruit?
Let us each reach a hand to take and taste one.
