The Storyteller

by Beate Sigriddaughter

Today I crown myself Sheherazade
in that part of me will listen,
always, to the king. I hear

I am slow but do not stutter,
even when he rises
with irrefutable logic, meting out
the judgment: I must die.

And so I will
meet death in his time
with life on my lips,

like a spring humming over
the leaden drought of rock, rapidly
in the slow rock-reshaping
wending of her way

or like a music rising
from her jubilant elaboration
loose over the rock-beat of rhythm,

for this earth is not
a destiny of silence, though impatient
death imposes
ropes of better worlds to come, or none.

Let the earth and her stories
recall me to themselves.