Unveiled, where she may be.

Her secret, blown like a kiss

Into the ear that inclines

As toward a kiss

As there are places

Women go to mix their juices with the Earth

A beaten rung of clay and ash

With eight fires around

Within a grove on a hilltop

When such can be found

At center two stones to stand on with a bowl

Gathering skylights in the waters

Between the stepping stones

A carefully mixed mud hole

Warmed by steaming stones