Rising and falling like nature's flower, in nature's hour, endless. Continuing and never ending, the flower grows and the flower goes.
How many re-births can one have in one’s lifetime?
And does it depend entirely upon how many times one allows oneself to die
In the realm of sacred plants, one stands mighty tall, Mapacho, with its wisdom, it promises to enthral.
My stumble then fall
Causes the usual pile-up—
Shock collides into Judgement
And thrusts her forward
To rear-end Shame
I can only be in one part of a room Be in one place at any given time Drive one car Talk of one thing.
I was thinking about the thousand different ways to wear a story this past week, as I celebrated one of my favorite collections of holidays: Groundhog Day/Imbolc and Candlemas.
I’m so on the surface. I grow and grow and I’m feeling muddy and ruddy. red earth. from the belly to the belly. clay and jungle bugs and mystery and awakening.
And Granny cried And the Robin heralded winter I thought I saw a fox peep
Have you noticed the light? Here, the pink has been kissing the dawn. Soft, so soft, and at dusk, it also blushes.
Persephone doesn’t feel timeless. She looks in the mirror and sees the wrinkles of bark tracing lines on her skin. Underground has its own season.