I was still short enough
to see the curve of skin beneath
robes that echoed the snow,
soft furs gleaming
against the canopy of woods.

The women liked to be natural,
and I watched their dancing—
chanting and swaying frames
like trees kissing earth,
then reaching far above
to the stars.

I was there only to watch,
and to walk among them.

When the dance and songs were done,
they were blessed by moon and stars,
completely bare—
puddles of white cloth
at their feet.

A circle made of their beautiful bodies.
That was my thought—
the heretics, wild and unrepentant,
beyond gifts,
lighting up the dark.

All of it praise.
All of it blessing.

I would not go unclad that year—
but the next.

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