Little Pomegranate Seed for newborn Sachie Inanna Hara
Your mother has been lush with you, deeply-sown round to bursting. Little pomegranate seed, you in your chamber under her heart dreamed of bursting too. Blossoming into rosy red flesh, succulent fruit, untethered from her garden you feel the surge, the wave of urgent love on which you ride calls you out of your seedling sphere into life. Little pomegranate seed, your father holds your mother in his arms. The Queen of Heaven and Earth holds him, all rock with wild astonished cries—grounding, guiding this fertile basket pouring you out. Your mother moves continents, the ground swells, a cavern forms. Little woman, pomegranate seed, Grandmother Inanna catches you, caresses you, surrounded by women, carries you into the world of your father. See your father’s face and all the Fathers and Mothers before you! The tribes are gathered for your forthcoming. Little pomegranate seed, Let your Japanese fathers name you Happiness, Let the Great One name you for Herself.
Fauna for Hayley
Entering the frame, striding through a portrait you made for me I listen to voices, placed by your knowing, colors calling the family—mine and yours-- back home.
Fauna, you and I have bloomed so many times together: tying our skirts around our waists straddling the mossy rocks, we washed our hair, long and silken at the river's bank, captured through reflected faces, even older than ours
Fauna, do you know how many times from All Time we have shared? So many lives aligned, incarnations, really. The memory of all these forms of mothering, daughtering, sistering-- you lighting the way-- I say the words, make incantations. And so, however it is our paths have crossed: vision and voice, colors and characters our witching walk proceeds.
Back-Seat Baby For Fiona, born in the back seat of a New York taxi
Back-seat baby, everything is moving fast! Fast, and in your own sweet, speedy time.
Fiona-the-free, fierce proud, shining one, Celtic mermaid, leaping like sea-trout, named for the pure white place between wave and foam, bark and tree. Named for magic and mercy, for dancing, deep ones rushing, rushing up to the surface into wild, big-city air.
Rush-hour is your hour back-seat baby born at just the right moment: with horns honking, traffic jamming, street folks bustling, pedestrians crossing and overhead the towering buildings, canyons of stone, brick, steel the birth canal a busy street--
your street baby!
Little Fee, fierce, fresh new-born, salted delivered en route, on the fly, in a hurry, ready to go:
"Hello, big World! Here I come!" I'm the back-seat baby-- born to fly, born to drive, born to say:
"I’m the one in the driver’s seat. Get to know me, if you can. I'm Fiona of the white wings, jet trails, cloud banks, slipstreams.
