coming home in the night the river still flows dark under that quiet dream sky and we fall to that flow as we fall to sleep and the water reclaims us fin and gill and speaks us silver ripple and quiet splash to the trees. if there was a long night it was dark and…
and sometimes the world sighs a moment – floats pink petals on dark water that flows slow-deep beneath old forest boughs heavy in bloom.
we thought they were wasted, those words we had spoken to the darkness, tracing shapes of light in slow-tongued syllables – holding names the wind taught us in our cheeks until we could speak the words of love that taste of earth and longing and tree to the silence, unheard. those words we thought discarded…
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.