easter weekend – beforeand after autumn rainwe walked the fern paththe damp underfoot paththe deep tree shadeblue sky raven paththat flows along the riverclimbs slowly until the quiet deepbecomes the flow rush through river grass,marimbas smooth over rocks,dashes pool to pooluntil birdsong becomes the river calling loudlyas it falls white water to dark pools. we…
lauds and always and againthis light comesdistils into bird songcalls us from sleepsings our awakening prime and perhapswe never neededto overthink thisbeing here –perhaps all we ever know,all we ever needed to knowis that we are here-nowwomen becominglichen becoming tree-lightbushbuck forest becoming morningbecoming women terce sunflowersturn their bright sky facesto look to the earthto the…
1it is not likegod could waitwhile wewove clothof hope and flax,a seasons growingto make thewarp and weftof prayer. 2thirteen ravensflew the sky,i don’t rememberwhy i counted. 3there was no predictingthe turning of the wheelyet i held the lucky numbersticky in church fair handwaving it wildlywaist high to the crowdwaiting to claim my prize. 4i cut…
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…
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.
somewhere in the snow a woman beats a drum, lights a fire, crouches low to feed her gods – says a prayer for us. says you have to live first – be alive before you can give yourself to the world somewhere in the sea a girl speaks quiet on a boat atlantic rocked, holds…
i kept those holy – those mornings where our worlds collided and all about us drew thin insubstantial with essence in the quiet of our breath did we even matter there in that unwavering presence of the here, when the light of creation undid us and we sat untethered and obliterated on the edge of…
do they get tired waiting for us, watching us lose and find ourselves on endless repeat. does she, hand extended wait for my return, longing as i do for reclamation – offering salvation to the sound of my foot prayers, redemption at my dark soil under nail prayers as if none of this has…
1 it is not like god could wait while we wove cloth of hope and flax, a seasons growing to make the warp and weft of prayer. 2 thirteen ravens flew the sky, i don’t remember why i counted. 3 there was no predicting the turning of the wheel yet i held the lucky number…