a gloomy afternoon, the stream flows silky clear. Fish dart upstream,
between rocks and under the debris of fallen trees.
I approach an
entrance to the underworld:
the mossy punenda of a pollard trunk turned upside-down, half-petrified, snaky roots grasping
air, feeling Medusa's ancient widely
symbol of female wisdom was her
threatening, ceremonial mask. It
has wide unblinking eyes that reflect her immense wisdom. They are
all knowing, all seeing eyes that see through us, penetrating our
illusions and looking into the abyss of truth. Her mouth is deathly; it looks like a skull.
It is devouring of all life, returning us to as
if I'm clinging to a world no longer here.