Vernal Equinox

Halfway between night & day

We pause, hearts momentarily held in equilibrium.

We glance toward the east then the west

certain that the sun will not desert us.

Our bare heads welcome the howling winds of warming March.

Fierce air fills the hollows of our ears as we stand

determined to merge with the elongated light

poised as it is between melting snow & pregnant buds.

The ripe soil seeds hope in our souls.

We clasp hands, sing symmetrical dreams

relinquish winter-weary sleep

& all that ties our bones to cold death’s memory.

The dark recedes as bright spring claims us

greening everything it touches.

Mother Moon

Tonight the Mother Moon rises pregnant in the sky

shining her resplendent light upon the world

dazzling us with the fullness of her being

reminding us that we are never alone.

Some say the full moon triggers madness

unleashes wild desires

untamed hopes and dreams

unchecked passions.

I say the Mother Moon unloosens hope

and the promise of transformation

her light a beacon, urging us inward

to claim our lunar memory

find our way back

to the original womb of consciousness

that soul-seed of the world that

birthed the human psyche

syncopated the beating of the human heart.

St. Joseph’s Day March 19, 2011

In Italy, San Giuseppe is a hero, not a cuckold.

He married an unwed pregnant woman

raised a son who was not his own, without complaining.

On his feast day a table is laid, a three-tiered altar

adorned with flowers, candles, fava beans, wine, cakes,

bread and cookies made of flour

to honor the beloved carpenter’s saw dust.

In America, in enclaves like New York City, New Orleans

Kansas City, Chicago, and Providence

Italians give bread to the poor

filling bellies emptied of sustenance

filling hearts emptied of hope

to pay homage to this regular Joe

a man of the people, a soulful soul

who listened to the angels, not the cynics

who did the right thing when the right thing was called for.

Whale Dancer Prayer

In the heart of the whale

In the belly of the sea

In the womb of memory

Dream

Dream

Dream

Sing

Sing

Sing

Dance

Dance

Dance

One love

One life

One world

One people

One peace

Paesana/Italiana

1.      Tuscany

I am northern cinghiale

savory, untamed

claiming the thick forests as my home

I am pungent pecorino seasoned with sheep’s milk

timeless as the undulating Tuscan hills

shimmering with sunflowers,

scented with cypress

my veins run ruby with Chianti

my bones grow strong on succulent

green-gold, first-press olive oil

my eyes behold the faces

of mountains, the shadows of sorrow

my ears ring with rumors, whispered

in the ruins of Etruscan hill towns

where women always stood eye-to-eye with men

sustaining the wide, round world.

2.      Puglia

I am southern fava beans

simmering in earthen bowls

rosemary-scented roast lamb

purple-kissed eggplant

zuppa di mare, spiced with saffron — yellow-orange,

fragrant with the perfume of North Africa, West Asia

the lands from which my ancient mother-tongue —

my original heart — sailed

the aqua arms of the sea

hug the high-plains habitat

of my Apulian ancestors

the curved, stone-washed trulli

glisten under the furious, scorching sun

the voices of dark-skinned

Madonnas reverberate through my marrow

releasing a concerto of yesyesyes!

as the hot wind whistles

through the dusty open fields

dances on the delicate petals

of crimson poppies

tickles the feathery, flaxen

tassels of winter wheat.

Unsung Songs

"There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside you."
--Maya Angelou

Some stories we bear as whispers
secrets too terrible to tell
silently they cower inside us
lacking the courage to fly
their telling unspoken
of places so broken
the heart is unable to mend
but life and its woes
its joys and its blessings
calls us to rush out the door
race through the streets
let loose a whoop
gather the stars in our arms
in the dark of the night
under the light of the moon
the places inside you are listening
with the mouth of your heart
let the telling begin
sing the unsung songs of your soul
unsilence the stories you've silenced
unburden your bones and be free
dance in the dark with the gypsies
relinquish your agony

La Befana

With eyes the color of mortal sin

a heart as magical as the moon

she spends her days sweeping

and baking

mending and tending

preparing her home for love

and for hope.

Some say the Magi stopped at her doorstep

inquiring about Bethlehem;

they wanted to visit a special child,

they asked Befana to show them the way,

travel with them; but she declined.

Wiping tears from her cheeks

she longed to cradle her own dead children

long ago taken from her arms.

The Magi left, but Befana’s sorrow did not;

she filled a sack with toys

and cookies, bread and sweets

to soothe the soul and sustain the body,

she straddled her broomstick,

flew from house to house,

leaving presents on darkened doorsteps,

seeking the Divine in every child,

not one, particular, Savior born in

a manger or a cave,

but all the girls, all the boys

whose laughter and joy

save the whole, wide, round

world from despair.

Note: In Italian folklore, La Befana is the kind, old woman with magical powers who brings gifts to the children of Italy on the eve of the Epiphany.

The Blessings of Ravioli

The ravioli lay on floured

pillow cases on your dining room table

looking like stuffed pillows

themselves —

the dough kneaded smooth,

then rolled to the right thickness,

the spinach and ricotta filling

dropped like clusters of

snow-crusted grass

onto the naked strips of pasta,

plumped into fullness

with a quick fold of the dough,

the corners tucked in place with the

pinch of a fork.

Your hands move in a holy rhythm.

You anoint the ravioli with

flour to prevent them from drying out.

White halos the arch of your cheekbone as

you laugh and sprinkle, saying,

“Bless these ravioli,” like some Italian nun.

I laugh, too,

reminded of my Catholic grade school days.

I wish we had known each other then.

We could have draped our little girl bodies

in my grandmother’s

gaudy red and yellow aprons

and watched her wrinkled fingers press each ravioli

into perfect form.

“The secret’s in the touch,” she told me.

Life is full of such holy mysteries.

How could I have known

the blessings of ravioli

passed from Grandma’s hands

to mine, and now to yours.

I touch your floured fingertips

and smile.

There is grace here

and beauty beyond words.

©1993, Mary Saracino

Originally published in Writers Who Cook, Herringbone Press (Minneapolis: 1993).