Sun pours down and earth bakes, a crumbling brown
as light pours down — gold and white
her crown amid the blue —
the hill’s high peaks, blue, and the haze
that wreathes them, promising rain
but offering empty hands of heat.
Father, make your thunder!
Give the Bright One her dancing veil
of white, and let the clatter
and patter be her ankle bells.
And the music of it will swell
its chord, and the Mother of Waters
will dance to its tune, welling
up from the deeps and dancing down,
with the sound of rattles and thunder and chimes