An idea aiming for the larger-than-life;
(assuming that life itself has shrunk in the dryer)
an Avatar Project (or projection)
in the moonlit footprints of the dancing Diana
the expectant labor pacing of Isis,
and the crystalline, frozen path of The Cailleach.
But Holy Altitudes of Platitudes are thin-skinned;
even the Maiden has to wash her socks,
the Mother is going to yell at someone for not listening,
and the Crone will wish her knees didn’t creak.
Pedestals give a nice scenic view,
but you can’t get much done atop them
and the Divinely Feminine I know are too busy
to just stand around being a pretty statue.
We’re peeling potatoes
fixing the toilet, mowing the grass,
looking for our damned keys or glasses,
and forgetting to wipe the lipstick off the milk jug.
All under the same different Moon.
[Snoozepossum was found under a large rock back in the late 60’s, and no one ever bothered to put her back. She falls somewhere between hedge witch and roadkill psychopomp, with heavy gusts of mineralogy and a 40% chance of scattered afternoon herbalism.]