-
tidal
it is the ocean who
speaks these long days,
horizon to horizon,
thundering her song
across the hills.
summoning the tides
that course our veins
to live enlivened
by the salt prayers
that shape us amniotic
in the ocean of
our own remembering,
form us pulse of light
from the dark waters
of our longing. -
adrift
in the dark
of the water
deep among
shards of light
i swim the softing tide –
thrum of river
quenching my skin,
playing my bones
deer flute
to the forest sky.
Ink drawing on the forest floor by Steven Hurt -
on buying a property in the wilderness
before you
haggle the bride price
with her father the bank,
have you asked her what she wants
and how it came to be
that her father owned her at all.have you asked who she was
before the shaving and the fences
and the shaping of her form
to the desires and fantasies of others,
and who she is now.have you asked her
if she has wished
that death might come
rather than live half alive
by the will of another –
have you asked her
how it is that she still lives,
wind rippling trees silver with sunlight.
have you asked what she dreams
moonlight on leaf
as the owls call through the night.before you offer anything –
have you shown her your heart
and asked if she will consider
relationship with you.
have you waited in silence
for her answer.
Drawing by Steven Hurt -
him
it is he
who waits
silent on forest edge –
twitch of muscle
under dapple tree light,
horns curved
like the sickle moon.
there is no seeing him until
on an exhale he lowers his head,
looks at you as though
he sees the galaxies within,
shifts his weight to the other hoof
and under his dark hide
marked with stars
the pulse of the forest ripples.
don’t look away –
lower your head in supplication
burn or be burned with the love
of all that is holy
for it is he
who barks the forest moon above the trees
he walks the paths of the night. -
hesitant
if i pause a moment
hard breath to the forest quiet
untangle the brambles
that are snagging my skin –
pull my hair from the cat-thorn
that begs me to wait –
if i stop here a moment
on this path barely marked
by the feet of those
who walked it before,
will my heart still
be ripped open
by this love.if i stop
just for now
to catch my breath –
lift my eyes
to the tall trunks of trees
until they, canopy of shadow
and light, become one.
if i pause just a moment
here among blue drifts
of wild lobelia,
feet firm on river rock,
can i open slowly
petal by sacred petal –
while the light falls
numinous
as summer rain -
imperceptible
all seeing
and unseen,
leopard walked
our morning prayers –
silent feet
on the forest floor.all hearing
and unheard,
leopard walked
our morning prayers –
carried our words
down deep forest paths
where human feet
might falter –
tasted our words
on that other wind
where only truth
might live. -
love
i want to ache
with this beauty,
taste the flow
with my feet,
have my breath stolen
by this gorge ripped deep
with its own undoing
until seed and bird claimed it
in the name of She who lives –
shaped it alluvial green
and tall with tree.
i want to sit on this precipice
flooded with light, while birds
weave my skin translucent
with song. -
moonwalk
i went to look for the moon last night
walked up the road
torchless and quiet
through darkness
only my feet could see by,
following spills of faint moonlight
between trees.i found her there
halfway up the hill
veiled and gentle
in the curved branches
of a treeand stood a while
moon spilled
in the dark beauty
of the night. -
witching with the moon
long before
this moon rose
we crone-walked
this cusp world
and waited for change,planted seeds
while the babies slept,
danced giddy
to the falling leaves –and when darkness came,
as darkness does,
untethered
from the light that lives
and those around us fell,
kindling wood to altar fires
of the new gods of the darkening,and when words of the making
were burned from the world
we chose the silence
of stone and mountain,
the potent silence of seeds
waiting for the moon.it is knowing
our walking casts
a shadow
that keeps us
walking light. -
light in the gloaming
he said in ethiopia
every plant contains
the power of god,
the treasure of god,
the blessing of god.he said when the wind
moves the branches of
a tree that someone planted
that the tree is praying for them,
praying for the long life
of the one who planted.he said in ethiopia,
for a church to be a church
it needs to be enveloped by forest
it needs to be the garden of eden
he said if the church loses its forests –
it loses itself.agriculture is eating the forests.
in just a one hundred years
we have changed
the landscape of ethiopia.
there are grandmothers
who still remember
the forests that grew
where desert dust now blows.he said in ethiopia
the church forests
are protected,
sacred,
sanctuary.they are green jewels
scattered in a bowl of dust –
they are like grandmothers
remembering their childhood
remembering what could be
remembering what needs to be planted
and the prayers to be said.this remembering is sacred sanctuary,
when the world loses its forests
we lose ourselves.