she realised that day, canoe cutting silver through the dark water that slid quiet strokes, that she loved that hill. had perhaps always loved the hill, living mystery with steep up down forest slopes held in the curve soft arm of a river where once she had sat, river rocked singing low, her arms encirlcling…
1.tuesday morningsunbird sang spring – and westill deep bundledin winter sleep stumbledout the househalf-rememberinghis song. 2.on my desk between potted plantsand two birdhouses storm-downedand in for repair – amidst pencilsand paintbrush and candle and river stones –six ants are carrying off the wingof a larger, now clearly flightless, insect – i sip of my waterreplace…
what of these chapels perilous or not that were built on the charred bodies of women – chapels that harnessed and yoked the prayers of the earth in service of a sky god that knew nothing of women like volcanoes who burned with the making of mountains long before these insipid fires licked them…
and of course we were made for this came as heroes hair billowing in the slow-motion wind last light of day casting us in gold and shadow, we were made for this and we came, all of us, because it was time and we were what was needed yelped at first breath of this…
within you within me are the vast plains and sacred mountains, the eternity of stars, the dark flowing waters that carry drifting petals on a reflected sky to the sea. within you within me is every thought and memory ever spoken or sung, or clicked antennae between reaching blades of grass in summer. within you…