POEM OF THE 
MONTH

STARDANCER
FEBRUARY 1999

I am something old,
I go back, back,
Nyad, Dryad, Druid,
One must be my name.
I am searching,
Still searching
For my people, my place.
At the stone, the ancient stone
I stop and wonder.
Touch her mossy hair,
Sacred is she,
Holy, the Mother
I bring my cross to her
that tiny golden symbol
of the god I have entombed.
She wears it well,
this rock, this stone.
The cross shines in the moonlight,
wooing me. It would win me back
if it could.
But I am unborn again,
now I am olden, olden
and I walk in cloaks of shadows
chanting, chanting,
as the white owl sweeps the sky.