I STARE at the moon. I see the shapes of Maiden, Mother, and CRONE emerge from shifting shadows and mist. My energies shift and my everyday façade begins to ERODE. Let the dance begin in the sacred GROVE.

Georg’ann

We rarely SPEAK
Conversation a CHORE
Not even a TROPE can fill
Vast expanse of silence
across the table
Where once words used to DRONE, buzzing like big flies
On the rotting fruit of a neglected GROVE

Heather