Justice for Women
is Justice for Mother Earth,
and too great for mere words,
but our XX
Chromosome power
has been fallowing
for generations.
We are the lips to
Pandora’s riotous box.
We are stretching up
and primed
to spear her light
scribing it into our
collective mythology
for healing,
our dazzling souls
unleashed, flung
wide open with the lightning
of our XX convictions.
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2021
I taste clay-flavored memories
on the road home, reaching out of the night.
The trickle of light waving inside me sighs--
it can never shine as marvelously
as late sun leaning through droplets
on the tops of these firs and alders,
or even as the moon, remote above her clouds.
It can never lead me back to before.
Somewhere in the chorus of rain,
among scents of mud and fresh cambium,
between the last cricket’s lull and the frog’s first prelude
a new Bible has been accidentally written
right here by a forest at night.
It tastes of fresh wood, spring rain and clay.
I enter it and become.
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2021
