“The Truth is not our goal; our art is the Absolute… where limits necessitate self-reference and self-reference makes possible self-creation which changes us”. Wittgenstein

She is a golden mountain warrior –
A gilded moment writing herself
Into the blessed formation of pyrite –
A glimmering crystal of change –

A wave of exploration, setting spirit on fire –
“A folding back in” of things on themselves
To unveil the alchemy, the search for gold,
The Philosopher’s Stone in the unfurling of time.

She hears the cries of the confusion –
The distant echo of a landslide
As thousands of suns roll down the
Slippery slopes of fear and terror.

She sighs and cries new souls into being
Golden haloes of grace gleaming –
The turquoise sky bursts into glory.
The goddess is reciting a new creation story.

One day, there was a shadow of a shrouded woman,

singing an aureate song of transformation –
The wildflowers listened,
the animals sniffed the air and cocked their heads,

humans hid inside their beds –

as the goddess called back their souls

to light the fire of the immediate worldview,

cradling the silent, assured presence of another

 already shimmering in the crack between the ridges,

               the presence of swinging future bridges!