Submission to Hathor’s Agon
On the darkest eve of the year
when Nut’s black skin shimmers radiant
the people trembled in the cold—
what would emerge in darkness’ womb?
It was not radiant Re in His barque,
nor shining Set with His russet spear;
it was not Neith of the weaving ways,
nor even Isis Greatest-in-Magic.
She came forther, Hathor of Golden Horns,
tiaraed in turquoise, lapis lazuli Lady,
standing like a pillar of earth and heavens
upon a ford in a river of milky white.
“Between sun and moon, smiles and blood,
between life and death, breath and silence,
between day and night, flower and sleep,
between winter and spring, chill and grain—
only I may hold the balance.
Which of my hands on outstretched arms raised will you take?”