Poem to a Plant Goddess
Her name is Datura.
Delicate fluted deep-throated trumpets open to
humming honey bees and summer rains.
She communicates through scent.
In the fall I collect her sharp-needled pods.
They rattle like dry bones.
I chill them.
In the spring I coax seeds to sprout
wrapping each in papery white cloth,
sing love songs – siren calls
to rouse each root from winter’s sleep.
I am patient…
a woman in waiting for the heat of the sun
to unfurl the mystery of becoming
that is re-acted in spring.
Only seeds know when to swell and burst.
Wooly hairs branch out from a single root.
Curling themselves into screw like shapes,
They leave it to me to untangle head from foot!
I hear the Old Ones call her Sacred
West wind whips red sand into my face,
as I place each sprout in well dampened soil.
Within a week green wings unfold
– twin leafed plantlets
lean into the fierce light of a golden eye.
Each seedling seeks its own form.
DNA meets the pattern of becoming
held by cosmic forces in a spiral round.
I imagine a bush of sensuous pearl white trumpets – lacey lavender tipped edges unfurling at dusk.
Datura communes with the Hawk moth under a blossoming moon.
-Sarah Wright
