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…
i have written your words on my skinto hold while i learn to speak you.shaped my tongue and breath around namesthat ache with the smell of you,murmured exhaled ripplesalong my palateacross your pebble bed backto the edge of sandy placeswhere your forest beingcrowds the shore. i have written what the birds singand the shape of…
1.it is a long journeyfrom dust to dustbecoming and becominguntil we areno more 2.today i sort the woolrank with goatand dirt of living –hook out the bristle thorn,lucerne stalks and seed debris –air it on the table in the sun.sinking fingers intosun warm fleeceto say the prayers of thanks because how can this not be…
they say that deathmight comelike a thief in the night,but love knows those pathsthrough the deep mystery too,asking nothing of usbut all we are to give, and waking one morningearly summer lightto find my belly stretched tautmarked welt-red and wildlike the skin of a shadow-play beastrippling with life,i knew this love would be fierce –that…
so late my loveand the day still needs doingthough sun has long slipped the horizonand only the night jar still sings, but there are stars nowmy loveaching with light long held –come breathe with methis unravelling sky.
if it was longing that brought us here, life longing for life – for river tree bird love flower ache – reach hand stretch across the dark empty with nothing but our own light to show the way. if it was longing that brought us here, then let us be this here this bird…
don’t speak to me about sweet annihilation, about a love, a god that obliterates when we have lived this perfect obliteration our bodies counting moons and seasons – barely able to contain the exuberance of bird song in spring and the quiet perfect longing of winters’ dark night. for generations we have thrown our bones…
and still these words can’t touch the catch breath inhale, the visceral trembling beauty of love alive and lived in the world.
daughters of the moon, daughters of the hills, daughters of our grandmother’s grandmother’s grandmothers, it is too long we have dwelled in the house of men fearing our power would scare them, letting our power scare us. daughters of the earth, love would never ask you to be less than you are, and if that…
how do we measure the light that pools perfect in the curve of a petal opening surely to the sun. how do we measure the love held in the heart of the turtle dove calling her longing to the night. how do we measure the worth of breath held words, shared and shaped into love.…