LANDAY FOR AUGUST

So many beautiful women over age of the cosmology of youth

The compassion of Mother looks out from a Temple of the Crone

Wrinkles of wisdom, lovers still in darkness, through winter

Mysterious even after blood has stopped running with the moon

Worn stories told in rolled papyrus held

Behind the veil of the Higher Self of feeling.

She has already traveled and knows

We are not ready to feel the smoothness

Burnished dreams are not yet the slow

Hard discipline of doing nothing in exposure

Depression and fear follow if we cannot

Assimilate the mystery into our own beauty

But shall we simply watch other and forget ourselves

Allow the wearing  passage of time to make us trivial?