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.…
there is no following where this path might lead, no heedings of warnings or calls, there is only this earth soft worn between undergrowth, thorn snarled and aching with the beauty of small leaves that touch the light just out of reach. and when we break to this beauty, as break we must. let it…
there is damp life beneath our knees that are relearning the prayers our bodies knew before we forgot what it was to be spoken by the land – elbows, wrists and palms to the earth, ear to the ground listening for the songs of love that those before us and before us and before us…
sometimes death comes to walk among the living among the sure-footed and the upright and the young. there is no looking away. pretending not to notice the slowing step, the quiet rasp of breath – for death has come to walk among the living and he never leaves alone.
if we are not here, bodies of dust and clay, to declare this love under a fast fading sky – then why, my love, are we here at all.
between day and night the world has paused letting light drift gold below clouds, claiming the lived and the living by touch on its slow climb up the hill while the door between worlds stands ajar.
again boomslang swims the high branches among a flutter of small birds and heron slowly measures the sky before the salt mist rushes the valley and the night sings of rain
if we know that at the heart of matter is energy, that we live into matter, that we build ourselves daily pulling atom and molecule into tissue and cell – that between proton and electron the microcosmic universe exists. if we know that energy can never be created or destroyed then we know we have…
deep in the ravine between the naked trunks of tall trees finding light are the bright red mushrooms that grow unseen among shadows. there is no path, no ladder, no stairs to the depths. your feet know the slippery ways of moss boulders and leaf mold – they have walked here in dream, waiting for…
In grateful and loving memory of Dusky Moon i dreamed once the white mare ran along the forest edge unbound in a place that felt like home and i waited and i searched and i listened for that place until, full pregnant, i could wait no more and the dream faded. we built…