Foraging for Meaning
The honey eyes of the Mother
take us in and bathe us
sweet like the
bloom of a Turk’s Cap.
I once helped a friend snip some
to mix in pancakes—a treat
for her daughters. Foraging
in the woods had revealed
surprises even a fortune teller could not
predict. Wary of the poison itch, the three
green leaves, the boney eyes of the Mother
ready to make you scratch, make you scowl
at the burn like the sting of a wasp.
I remember the sweet death scent
for days not knowing the source
until it faded to the wind.
Years later, moving, I removed
the terra cotta sun to reveal
a full lizard skeleton next to a wasp nest.
Disturbed, I felt the imminence
of what we all must face
Fascinated, I gazed the intricacy
of bone adjoined to bone
a braiding of life
once honeyed in the green, green spring.
C. Amber Richards finds inspiration in the beauty of everyday life, while her interests in the esoteric, meditation, and yoga inform her writings. Her poems have been published in This Order and The Austin Chronicle. Amber currently resides just north of Austin, Texas, with her husband and three cats.