Who poured the wet quick scimitars

past my bent fingers, solid knee,

feet I rooted till my crown grew stars,

my breasts branching from a budding tree?

These draping robes redden patiently,

seeded with moons, those avatars

of the folds where grain, tree, and body fan

to branch me, through the sceptred bars.

Power of Earth did engender me,

raising the heads of the tickling wheat,

the sparkled texture of the loom

behind my throne. We can sit and eat,

cupping a sceptre and a plan,

in the queendom where to wait is to bloom.

From Spells (first published in Court Green)