I see her going out to play before breakfast,
Her hair a mousy fawn in the predawn light.
She is dreaming, and it seems to me, pretending.
She glides amongst the thistles,
And bluebells, their blooms still nestled tight
And covered with dew.
She pirouettes, and dips, and curtsies,
A gentle ballet, in step with the morning birds' song.

But just as the sun breaks over the distant hills,
And golden light crowns the lea,
I see the gold wash through her hair.
I'm aware of her divinity,
And for just a glimpse I understand
That she is not pretending,
But every motion of her dance supplies
The world around her with fertility and life,
And her movements now
Will cause the stars to shine later,
And cause the bees to come,
And the morning flowers will open
And there will be homes
For mothers of all kinds to birth their young
And see them grow.
And even from this maiden goddess,
Not a woman yet herself,
But within her power, the aura of life exists,
And motherhood.

-jenn