Worshipping the Earth Goddess, Gaia,
before the great altar in Santo Domingo
If the goddess is not carried in your heart
like a warm loaf in a paper bag beneath your shirt
you will never discover her hiding place.
She does not sip ambrosia from these golden flowers,
nor does she climb this vine
to mount to her heavenly throne,
nor does she recline in majesty
a pantocrator in a mandala frowning down.
In spite of the sunshine trapped in all this gold
the church is cold and overwhelming.
Tourists come with cameras
not the people with their prayers.
My only warmth and comfort:
not in this god who bids the lily gilded
but in that quieter voice that speaks within me,
bringing me light amidst all this darkness,
bringing me poverty amidst all this gold.