December 18, 2009
Beneath us, this support,
quiet as it is, this power
linking directly to my heart, fresh, cool,
down in the layers, the emerald, the sapphire,
holding us all tenderly, warm and strong, our lover,
the power of the mountains is with us, everywhere.
Today, as if posing for a portrait,
she is holding still, so still,
holding each branch forth with her immense grace,
available to us, almost shy.
The mountain, enshrouded today, is retreating in the heavy fog,
head in the clouds, really.
She is seen, and she fades. She is seen, and she fades.
As for me, I’m but a puppet, magnetized,
a whirling skater upon a mirror,
a slave to her power.
Autumn and winter, spring and summer,
pulling the Moon, and being pulled,
she turns so slowly, so beyond our ken,
each minute shift is an avalanche on Denali,
a hurricane in Cuba, a rock slide in Tennessee.
I cannot grasp her power.
Now and then, a turn in the path, a change in the weather,
and I glimpse the mountain’s power, the ageless magnetism,
I feel her pulling my eyelids down at night,
pinching me to leap for joy in the day...
but she is so far beyond me to know,
I am only here to witness, to glimpse and guess,
to be propelled through my life, a leaf on the wind,
at the mercy of Her grace.
Annelinde Metzner October 29, 2009
July 30, 2009
The earth’s egg,
she nestles here in her corpus luteum.
Bold and firm, how deep, how deep?
Huge egg, birth place, bursting place,
eminently fertile stone ground of all beginnings.
The earth’s egg,
smooth as silk at the long fall,
an Easter egg frosted with green.
In peace a buzzard glides by on the thermals,
loving Her, all bliss.
copyright Annelinde Metzner July 25, 2009
(Photo by Susan Burkot)
June 19, 2009
Did you know that
the forest is rejoicing in you?
On the forest floor, this June,
Galax is blooming,
tall white candles lining the path
where you walk.
The rain, the plentiful blessed rain
has filled each lake and stream
and draped each stone and hard place
with brilliant green mosses,
each stone a small village of miniature trees,
For you, the air is cold and sweet,
redolent of the ferment of humus,
the lush bed of new life laid before you.
For you, the soft breeze on your tired skin
cleanses you of all your worries,
and overhead, fit for any blushing bride,
mountain laurel in impossible numbers
bloom in your lover’s bower.
Loving you! Loving you!
Loving your being, breathing with you,
exhaling with each of your inhalations.
She welcomes and embraces each cell you offer here.
In the cold recesses of the wild deep cataracts
that pour out your welcome, layer upon layer,
the sun breaks through in rays, brilliant yellow-green.
She pours out her joy, yes,
she crashes into the black pools,
just for the joy of being here,
just for the joy of you.
Annelinde Metzner copyright June 14, 2009
June 13, 2009
The hard wind tearing through the Nantahala Forest
is the big swift hand of Grandmother,
getting crumbs off the table, thoughtlessly,
readying for the next thing, washing clothes or serving soup.
In the hollow, under the cold wind, you are the crumb!
You may like it here, but you’re gone!
Loud and long the fierce winds howl through the deep forest.
She brushes Her hand, and ancient oaks crash, obedient to Her will.
The Rhododendron stands patient through eons and eons,
accustomed to the Grandmother’s whims.
Her brown and mossy stems meet and turn exquisitely,
solid, rooted, yet reaching for air,
a ballet on the brown forest floor.
Her leathery broad leaves are good for all winter,
each whorl of leaves a brilliant, fleeting thought.
They call this Rhododendron Hell:
Hell, Holle, the Holy, the One Who Lives Death.
Plants and animals die here, ecstatic
to feed Her, to become the next thing.
I, too, would die for Her, here at Her feet in the Nantahala Forest.
“Guten abend, guten Nacht,” sings Grandmother,
tucking me in as I dissolve into nutriment.
Here at Holle’s side, Her perfect whorls elegant,
I’d wash into dirt at the first icy rain, rejoin the family of all being,
sing the green songs of the ages.
Fierce winds tear through here, uprooting oaks.
I sleep at Her feet until whenever She needs me.
Annelinde Metzner copyright 1998
May 27, 2009
Not just once but many times She surrenders,
the Wisteria, lusciously sweet,
royally purple, palest lavender,
clusters like Concord grapes
drooping, sprouting wild everywhere.
Leaves so new and tender-green,
I can’t even feel them to the touch.
Huge, heavy scent,
like a sultry liaison on a hot afternoon,
or like three Grandmas in church,
or like a little girl’s Christmas perfume.
Surrender! says She,
and again She gives forth so big,
trees and roofs are dwarfed by Her energy.
Let it just fall, fall down,
give up, She shows us!
And why do you hold on so tight?
Fall, let fall! and as you do,
your beauty, your perfect wholeness
falls open for all to see.
copyright Annelinde Metzner April 2009
Icy white curves of pure sunshine
come through the white lace curtain
surprised, as if the Sun
had tumbled into a clothes dryer
full of lace undies.
I can’t fully see the day,
She is so veiled, so disguised
in honeycombs of lace,
lace petals of flowers,
filigrees and tendrils,
flirtatious as flickering flame
even though the glass is frozen.
It’s twenty degrees today, even at the beach,
January. A world white as lace,
and hiding something too, maybe hiding a year,
a whole new year, a brand new number,
the world not quite discernible
beyond the sheer lace curtain,
January delicate and lovely, thin as lace.
The Sun, as bright as He can be,
happily cascading into white roses of lace,
caught in time, in January’s sheer wonderment,
the unknowing, the promise of the future,
beyond somewhere, waiting.
copyright Annelinde Metzner January 2009
(photo by Anne Laudati)
April 06, 2009
There are lakes that go down a thousand feet,
February 22, 2009
In the Fern Woods
February 05, 2009
When people see rain,
February 04, 2009
What She Is
February 01, 2009
The Sacred Grove
January 31, 2009
Some days I can tell what the mountain is saying.