our feet know songs of longing our lips could never utter on this path to the river written in root-shadow, dust and stone. and when this path opens to light dappling water and trees leaning close, there is a prayer to the river only our skin can speak.
like petals to the sun we open to this living because we are here now because life asks the living to live because this morning roused us from our broken sleep, sang us jubilant as the stars faded and our bones hummed with new light dappled on the forest floor.
silent as noon in summer the heat of the day turns sunlight sugar sweet – and fruit begins to ripen around sleeping seed, and we sigh into that silence and settle to the turning of the year.
fridays mostly we walk the long stretch of beach along the indian ocean with nothing but sea and all that lives it between us and the cold deep south of antartica. we walk with intention – gleaning the dunes and high tide line of garbage, gathering the bits of plastic that we did not want…
love never changed her mind or changed her ways. she has always been in love with you, with the fiery heart of your living – your burning passions that could set a room aflame – the quiet your of being in the emptiness. she knows your vulnerabilities, your need to keep yourself warm. and perhaps…
quiet among the dapples a breeze has come to sway the canopy and stir small birds into busy and chatter – while leaves, dangled spider-silk, twist lazily catching light.
women have long lost their skins to love – whether it be fox or selkie or leopard or bear that let them live wild in bramble dreams and kelp forests of shadowed light as the moon rose deep in their animal bodies. and some mornings we wake skinless in a soft rain world thrumming fascial,…
it can be no heaven without the song of birds falling like rain to our thirst.
will the world end if we live this stupid – if we wait and see which way this wind will blow and if it blows, all of it, will we hold our breath – wait and see if someone else will do something and what kind of stupid that doing might be too, because there…
there is no caging wings of light that rise crimson bright to fly the gilded river until first light cools on their wings and they land wings outstretched while their feet taste the earth anew.