Johanne Renbeck

Berry canes thick with late season
second fruit drape heavily into the
woods path.

If I could prop them
up with timbers, I could pass, but
nothing sturdy comes to hand.

I wait, unformed, insubstantial as

« back
In the womb of the
moon I rise and see her, Eve,
our earth mother, our dear bear,
padding along the frosted ways.

She walks into the gathering dark, into the
cave where I am born into her world,
scathed by thorns,
red with the blood of fruit.
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