.
We chose to climb this mountain
through old brambles, over ice
.
cursing barbs that scratched our ankles
damning thorns that tore our veils,
.
splitting stones that skinned our reason
as the thunder rolled our tongues.
.
Now we reach the sacred fire
and our hair turns scarlet
.
as we catch the embers, naked
and the circle dream awakens
.
to paint balm across the valley,
bleeding light into our wounds.
.
.
(c) 1993, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright
.
(An old poem, revised and dedicated to H.D. Rhoads, my mentor years ago.)