Category: Poetry

Be it

The stillness that comes
By gazing at crumbling leaves, trees, and limbs
Grounded
In the soiled treasure of mother earthing
Whispers gently with certainty
That I my self
The soul with uprooted, upchanging chaos
Can be planted once again.

The way the trees go every whichaway
Crooked with purpose and presence
Raw
Reaching claws first out of the creating One
Births in my deeper parts
The wisdom of my material body,
My vessel that flows, bulges, jigs, trembles,
My staying power.

Sunlight liquid spilling over all that is present,
Shining on and in, one and inside
Every god created thing that dares to die and become
Reminds me with thick memories of
The warm between my thighs made from moving
Bringing Light to the dim spots caused from friction.
I am the light, the still, the dark parts of the sun.