Peach blossom


“It is 2016,” say the rows of peaches,
   all in bloom, orangey-pink, on this Spring morning.
“We billow out our petals, our sweet fragrance,
   and later, our piquant, sweet-and-sour fruit, 
   to delight the heart and bite the tongue.
We are so wet and soft, 
we will run rivulets down your chin.”

The temple maidens of Crete gaze lovingly and knowingly
   upon the rows.

“But still,” say the peach blossoms, “still, even though we bloom,
   men fight and kill and die in bloody heaps
   running red into our roots.”

“Somehow we sang of this, though three thousand years ago,”
   call out the temple maidens.
“Though we danced circles upon your grassy knolls,
   though incense burned deep and cleansing all around us,
   we ran barefoot to the shore and saw
   the ships full of men, headed for war.
They moved on, heeding no more
   our delights of the body and the soul.”

“Temple maidens! Come again and dance among our rows
   with your lilting song and compelling drumbeat,
   calling all people to rise in ecstasy,
   in our beauty, among our orangey-sweet rows.”

“We come, we come, oh Peaches soft and wet,
   it is of You we sing,
   it is of You and Her, Her boundless joys,
   Her endless cacophony of creativity
   to which we all are born.
It is for You we sing,
   and we come here today, come from Crete
   to celebrate and sacrifice,
   to burn late at night in the groves,
   to Priestess the rising energy of Your heated sap
   until all Human’s blood runs rich and hot,
   magma from the soul, from all our roots,
   for us, for You, for them, for now, for all.”

©Annelinde Metzner
March 28, 2016