By Steven W.
((To the Goddess or Nature, depending on how you choose to read it.))
You are beautiful, to be certain. The first impression that strikes me whenever I gaze upon you, along with your quiet majesty, is your awesome beauty. Not only the snowy purple mountain tops reflect your beauty, but seemingly ordinary things as well. At sun set, as the fading light of your setting flame pours through the branches of your sleepy trees who yawn with the cool summer breeze, one can not help but be swept up by the intoxicating flavor of your beauty. I can only imagine what it must be like to look out over the canopy of your grand rain forests, or to stand in the vibrations of a volcano erupting with your passion and fury.
Your voice, also, enchants me. At the same time as the setting sun is intensifying the beauty of your majestic trees, the voices of the creatures of the night mingle into one soft yet adventurous melody that lifts my soul beyond the realms that are generally thought to be specifically designed for the imprisonment of man. But unchained we soar in a boundless sky, when enchanted by the singing of the crickets, the hooting of the owls, and the bellowing of the coyotes in the distance. Voices of innocence carry messages of experience on the fading wind.
Your touch is perhaps the most subtle, but certainly the most potent of your gifts. To lay on your soft grass on a breezy summer night, and look up at your wondrous sky, is to be held by the world s greatest lover. And perhaps that is what you are. At the beach, your soft sands gently brush against my feet, momentarily accented by the detailed touch of a shell. Then your warm salty arms enfold, protect, and comfort a weary traveler who has sought your embrace for a seeming eternity. Your arms are the source of life; from them we came, in them we thrive, and, if we do not sever them, to them one day we will doubtlessly fall.
But there is a scar across your beautiful face. Your bardic voice is hoarse, and your velvet fingers are burnt. As I bask in your majesty, I feel guilt because I know that I am the source of your pain. While my right hand smoothes back your long, dark hair in the gesture of a lover, my left is poised behind your back with an assassin's dagger. And I tear my sword through your spine even as I cry for your death. Even as I witness my own.
You are my mother, my father, and my companion. You are my victim.