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