Making A Maze

While spiders, millennia upon millennia,
follow their mazed threads to the core
where the life offering lies,
we rebel monarchs-to-be,
in our inner-caves, learn
what patterns catch souls.
We labyrinth,
labor in Love not lost,
lay out a path conceived in dreams,
made of moonlike rocks,
many folded lilts.
Luminaried, we the new ancestors
walk back about thirty thousand years
to where the old ancestors laid the design
they’d seen on turtle’s back,
on mastodon’s split tusks,
in their finger prints on those cave walls,
where they gave their children
by torchlight the world in a whorl.
We feel again what the earth says to our feet,
under a sky spangling back our myths.
We bring our fire, our tides to the center
where honor and horror meet,
where the loud silence before death and birth waits
and eternity is announced with a laugh.
All around, the green grows eager to consummate
our creation, take it back to the original mother-one.
We continually emerge saying with our symbols
“I was here” and “I mattered.”
For the moment, we monument our life
in a leaf, a flower, a pen we leave
graced in the middle of the maze.