Medusa

by Karen Jones

 
Granddaughter of Gaea,
she was beautiful in her youth.

Now her cursed face appears
in the upturned ball of the fallen tree
torn from the forest floor. 
She cried a splintering cry,
snake hairs yanked from the soil,
now all are broken, twisted
in every direction, a severed connection
to the underworld.

Her grimy eyes, hollow, dry,
dead on stalks, stare into empty air. 
Stones embed her cheeks,
but she no longer looks down.

Seasons turn. 
Vine maples root in her crevices,
Tendrils trace her brown forehead,
moss veils her face.  Water trickles
through trillium and fern, somewhere
deep beneath her body.

Life fills in.
She is beautiful again.


* * * * *

Karen Jones is a teacher, poet, and life-long learner from Corvallis, Oregon.  Her poems have appeared in Willawaw Journal, Circle of Seasons, Cirque Press, and other publications.  Her chapbook Seasons of Earth and Sky (Finishing Line Press) was released in 2020.