Seed spreads

Augurous autumn, trees were flaming red
a blood oak stood brightly against
the pale morn light of rose fingers
just before the aubade marks its domain
the Volva Vigga stood with her grown lassie
looking at the sunup wondering where
the years had altogether and wholly vanished -
Gemma Sarah turned into another stout tree
whose stem was sturdy and fiercely loyal
her unctuous umbra radiated real joy
and true sadness - a mixture of womanhood
just as mysterious and mellow as her foremothers
she was her own self - another Volva - not -
because her father's fashion was embedded
in her own being - she was a mixture
of runes and age-old Jahve's tribe
of the earth she had smelled in her mother's hut
near the old Yggdrasil, the tree watered
by her mother's tears dropped before her birthing
raised by the two sisters and their fiendly friend
the eunuch - he provided the father's sphere
sometimes when he was in their neigborhood
on the way or back from a trip from his master
- the medicine man up north near the
great wall and hollow hills of the moors.
Gemma Sarah was going away to a larger town
creating her own life - the Volva, sad, but proud
knew that her off-spring would make mistakes
make her own life worth while, create what
she thought would be right for her, not the ancients.
Vigga the Volva felt her forefemales most vividly
in her veins wrung the herstory of blood,toils,
felonies against the founding females -
but Gemma Sarah rejected that she was part of that
whole rigamarole and instead devoted herself
to another art form - a line of singing songs
created mostly by manly men whose stories
told the dualities of living together
in hormonious harmony - very few of those tales
were happy and the wondering Volva mused
that her daughter might be daring to dream
without counting on the world's bastardy ways
of cutthroat carelessness - of wanting it less
but it was for the young to find out for herself.
Sadness filled her but she turned away from
her daughter's form - and encouraged her to go on
to fly on her own wings - hoping only that
she would land safely wherever she was heading
nothing absolutely nothing she could do
and therein lies the irony of motherhood
sheltering the bitty bairns for a timely period
again hoping that their wings will be strong enough
to bear their hopes and high-flying dreams.
The Volva Vigga waved to her offspring
sprightly taking her own off-beat road of fatal phase
going away netting her to an unknown nexus
away from the grandmother's and their lines
into the arts of harmony and heroines' heroic plights.
A rare road less trodden deeply down
a square taskmaster much more demanding
than many other odd-sounding old fields of fares.
Knowingly the motherly breast squeezed her fears
and stepped boldly aside - letting fair fate decide
the morning light now broke out into the trees,
the autumnal leaves turned crimsonly cardinal
adding to the shimmering aurora's dashing day
and in the background as her beloved daughter left
the motherly squelzing but sustaining sphere,
Yggdrasil yonder seemed to spout another spur
and the grannies danced in the daunting daylight.