Pink Moon

April’s full moon did not bring its pink flowers

But the thorny matter of its questions.

How should a woman cross her own desert?

Drink from the waters of her time lost,

An impossible conjure of the past.

Seeds do not sprout in such geography,

That much we know.

No map, no road, no port -and yet

For every woman a compass, for every compass a star.

And so we begin

The journey to that distant past

Before our own time,

And that of our mothers,

Grandmothers, their mothers, and so forth,

Until we find Eve,

Those before her.

A time when mysteries did not require

Solutions, equations.

All that was needed was

The whispers around the fire.

There,

here,

                      the oasis.

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