My heart, a seed within soil, calls the heavens to coax me out of dormancy.
My arms, oaks on drought-afflicted land, ache from the lost embrace.
My outstretched hands, messengers between earth and sky, cast pollinated prayers to the wind:
Beloved, do not allow your creations to wither. Without you, we are not whole.
Nourish our roots with your abundance; bring forth the flowers of our soul.
Deliver us to ourselves and let our purpose grow.
I’ll follow you into the forest of mist
Where our imaginations will inhale low-hanging clouds
And become full with generative dew.
When winter’s ice brings stillness to your soul,
When long nights bring rest to your heart —
What will you release to decompose in the earth,
And what will you carry to the returning sun?
Witnessing storm clouds
Bathed by their rain
An end to stagnation
Carries opportunities for change
Surrender to the beauty of the Great Unknown
For Truth never thrives in a life outgrown
A familiar face, long and narrow, levitates in the corner between tiles. Thin legs and arms drawn close, protective of her slender body. I’ve seen her here for weeks now, shielded her from downpour, and guided her to safety.
I bend to pump soap into my wet, warm hand. With my face nearer hers, I say, “hello, dear,” because she’s waving her arm at me. I reach my index finger to her and she stops waving to reach back to me. For a moment, she and I are like God and man on Michelangelo’s ceiling.
The next day, I look but cannot find the familiar face.
Shifting, bending, building her heart
Exhaling incense, honoring grace.
When efflorescence comes to Lavender’s branch,
She bows her head in devotion.
With warm fingertips, the benevolent sun
Lifts Lavender’s chin and says —
It’s your divine purpose to fully express the depths of our soul.
Passing life through bees,
Scattering seeds like words to the wind
For Gaia to choose
How she will live forever.
As the earth moves to the degree that aligns with my first breath, I am whole, having learned to tend to myself as if for the world.
I journey to a reminder of my origins. Crumbling orange bluffs, salty air, and windswept cypress trees. To the mother who knows my deepest truths and cradles them in nonjudgment.
Her winter spirit redecorated with remnants of trees carried down river, turned into benches and sculptures. An unrecognizable shore, aside from the turtle back rocks, gives me permission to see.
I am the sand, shaped and molded. Done and redone, uncovered and recovered. Swept away and built again.
I am the rock who has remained through every gale. Etched and refined into tide pool homes.
I am the wave, it’s lifetime unmarked by revolutions around the sun. Returning to the sea it never left.
Seeking quiet stillness
Dormant life paused
Inhaling sacred silence
Space between actions and words.
Exhaling what cannot be carried
Surrendered to journey within
To the depths, the truest core
Brought forth in time for Spring.
I appear at her door with footsteps speaking homesick words
And pour world-weary troubles into her waves.
Longing for innocent longing.
She sings to me, just as she used to — but now I understand.
Soothing indifference, pulling my words into her crashing whirlpool,
Sweeping them out with her undertow
Tumbling and polishing them with salt and sand.
And in the space of my empty wordlessness —
Now that I understand her —
She keeps my polished rock words and gives me her song.