I happened upon this, today.
This She that is a tree.
And so much more.
Robed in soft moss.
How sensual are these arms?
How free is She to spread herself among the ways of the sky
while rooted in earth.
To gaze upon Her is
to feast upon
and delight in
the Mystery of the Mother.
Wanting it to be different. Knowing it’s not.
It is death. The death of our togetherness.
Can I stand alone, completely alone?
Can I put my trust in that which knows of things to come,
Even when it refuses to clue me in?
Can I step off and step off and step off, again?
Pema says it’s the way of the birdling,
A life of nest-leaving.
I seem to like the quicksand of inertia,
Staying in the place of half-in, half-out.
The knife is never my tool-of-choice.
Rather, I select the seam ripper, and break threads loose, one stitch at a time.
Why not the knife?
It cuts clean. It removes what is done. It severs quickly.
I fear the finality of the knife.
Instead, I lounge in garments of in-between.
Burden. Yoke. Saddle.
They’re not even mine.
And not real food for the heart, but,
processed goop, packaged in Styrofoam, empty calories with no life force.
I hear the sound of Your voice
And I follow. My heart perks up.
I am with myself. And You.