America used to be a circle, a golden sphere spinning round
blue rivers caressing colored stones, silver in night’s crackling firelight.
She exuded myth in the rocks of mountains
and leaves of oak trees, and maple veins blood-red orange
surging, touching moonlight,
leaving sap to be sipped,
sweet gifts to be simmered over embers ’round the fire
they sang her rhythm in rounds,
chanting the circle of the universe,
her womb wrapped around them in smoke
and laughter, and sleep.
Karen K.L. Espaniola April 2, 2012
