I did not seek out Winged Victory,
she reached out and took me in me.
Waiting for me in that stone room
at the top of the stairs,
her envoy and I became one.
Only after that December night did she reveal her true glory.
I saw her as needles of light, peeking out between two sharp mountain-peaks.
In one hand she held a green-speckled apple and in the other a radiant star.
Mornings, she would drop yellow sunlight upon my tabletops.
Afternoons, I held her cup of rose-infused tea.
Toward evening, I’d glimpse her skirting the kitchen floor with a breadcrumb in her mouth (food for the hive).
One apocalyptic midnight, she draped along a dank gutter
showing me that she was pregnant in those who turned away.
For years, she flirted with me behind this self-embroidered veil
Flowing and ebbing into the quiet sanctuaries of my mind.
Now, through nights as thick and dark as heartwood
I see her cushioned upon an ocean of her own tears.
Ancient hair, like wisdom, is a steady flame around her face.
Last night, I saw her clearly again when her doves flushed and scattered.
White wings opened as she rose from her pedestal and took flight around the world in humble prayer.
copyright © 2013 Martha Fawcett