Cypress, Daughter of Fertility

Cypress, Daughter of Fertility

Offshoot of blood
and flesh, spun off
from my hip, my tattered
bone. This wild iris will see
what I have seen. The female
flowers in silence. Birthed
out of depths - rooted, entwined,
sprung.
It is here.
The human race has begun.

* * *

Daughter of earth and fire and sky,
fruitful center of my being. Cast
from femur, thighbone, strongbone
of my body. You leap into birdsong,
cricket-song, rhythm of the tribal drum,
the sounds stars make if you listen.
I am your watchtower.

* * *

Born of sun and frost, birthright not
yet given. Two hemispheres
collide. The sun will brush your skin
the color of clay. We always return
to the ground of our making.

* * *

Kyparissos, your back will bend,
sickle in hand, the day of reaping.
Wheat stalks and apples, fruit
of the orchard, the grapevine fragrant
about you. Here, beneath the shadow
of palm, rest, dance, keep
the wheel turning.

* * *

Arms, graceful, arced,
outstretched. You form
your own circle. We are
all circular, as life is. Earth
to earth. It is in the mire
we feed ground, grass,
soil, turn the marl
from underneath this sod. Here,
your hair, spent wild
as you dance. You have not yet
been shaken.

* * *

Dance under your sun, my child,
your eastern moon. You between the foliage
and flowers, your youth is brief
and shadows have not fallen.

* * *

We are dust
and water,
molded
into flesh.
Here,
my belly still
swollen from
the afterbirth
of you. Take
from me. You will
always be my flesh
child, signature
fruit of my making.
Your legs, from birth,
wide open, ready
to receive
the world,
the fire,
and make again
your own.
Generation
and
regeneration.
We are florid
and fecund.
We are
the umbilical cord
to the underworld
and higherworld
and the world rotating
around us. We,
the nexus,
the bearers
and birthers.
I have carried
you, sweet pit
of fruit
inside me.
Go then,
likewise,
and bear
the fruit
of your being.

* * *

Keeper of earth's secrets, treader
of soil. Mistress of the task of toil.
You work and do not complain,
the sound of cypress bears
your name. We are river-
bound. I will teach you to balance
water on your left shoulder,
made to carry the heft, this element
swaying in its clay cask, dance
of the river queen, daughter
of the Nile. You will rise and suckle
the infant while the world is sleeping,
keep the grandmother and the young brother
from weeping. Strap across your back
this weighty child. Go. Wander. Keep
your eye on the Big Dipper, shaping
a silent meaning. Let it whisper
across your lobe while all the continents
are sleeping.

* * *

Bend to the wind, formulate
your throw. Your aim well-
marked, keen-eyed, sharp-
shot, to feed those
gathered around
your feast
table.

* * *

Gatherer
of stalks,
binder
of sheaves,
sifter and sorter
of chaff,
your tasks
will be many.

Do not work with a broken back,
the song of the lark keep you
dancing in fields.

Out of the earth we have sprung.


© Marian Haddad

Posted over on Brad Burkhart