August

August longing heats

the quiet terrain of solitary bodies.

August longing radiates

cells that ache with thirst,

parched, dry tinder.

Skin, not as tough as bark,

ignites under touch electric.

Stoked and stirred by hot fingers of wind

encircling,

caressing,

filling in,

drawing out.

We burn for days.

We burn for months.

We burn for years.

We are burning now.

Smoldering cores of coal.

Lover’s kisses quench the moment.

Earthy blackberry crushed on lips.

Salty blood-licked thorn-prick.

Callous hands meeting softness.

We smell of cottonwood resin,

of river rock,

sun-baked minerals.

We listen intently for the call

of water at twilight.

Entering slowly,

savoring coolness.

Our roots,

our hearts,

our crowns

emit steam, rising.

We immerse

one and two,

becoming one, then becoming three.

We are multiplicity.

We are transitory.

We are fluid,

playful dreamers frolicking like otters,

our eyes reflect the starry seas of our birth.

We are wounded

warriors seeking

the medicine of touch,

love healing,

willing community.

Community willing the will–

the will to resist,

to undo violent behavior inherited, learned,

the will to cultivate what does not yet exist.

 

Summer

I have loved you from the beginning,

like the hot eternal flame of creation that stirs in every life.

I held the memory of spring’s renewal,

of summer’s abundance

through the deaths of autumn

for you.

I kept you warm in winter’s veiled dormancy.

I blessed your sown seeds

with water, time, heat and light.

now I await,

I anticipate,

I watch for the opening of your blossoms

and the development of your fruits.

In New Moon Darkness

I sit cross-legged on a wooden floor

in new moon darkness.

The sound of wind rushes in

singing a dancing tree song.

Dense air, damp and cool,

smells of leafing, budding life,

of rain, soil and muddy clay.

In my mind’s eye I dream, many things.

I imagine our pattern,

felt though unseen,

woven into the space between us.

We are independent strands drawn together again and again,

in an undulating dance,

forming a serpentine knot.

Our beginning,

it was a slow awakening,

or a renewal of sight–

a discovery of what has been before,

of what could be.

Our ending,

it does not exist.

The distance between us is fertile

with wonder and possibility,

with uncertainty and doubt.

Sometimes, I think my longing may undo me,

burn through me.

Truth is, my longing is here to nourish, to empower.

I allow the warmth of it to permeate.

I receive its wordless wisdom.

I will be the vibrant, fragrant blossom to the bee.

I will be the water’s edge to wild creatures of dusk and dawn,

I will be the curving slopes of your lover’s body to your seeking hands–

I will be all of this, and more.

There is no more time for surface-dwelling.

Perspective

Today I walked an old familiar path through woods I have known since young childhood. Only this time I began where I usually end, and I ended where I usually begin. Everything looked different, altered on the flipside. I came upon unmarked trails leading into mystery–had they been here before? I had lapses of disorientation. Where was I? Do I know this grove of cedars? …this seasonal pond? this patch of horsetail? this steep incline? this creek? I turned in a circle. The path lay quietly behind me and before me. I felt, more than thought, I know this forest, this compacted earth beneath my feet, this April sunlight illuminating trillium and salmonberry blossoms. I know the unseen presences surrounding. I am known here. It occurred to me then, that perhaps I was undoing a spell cast through years of footfalls, or maybe I was weaving a new one–a spell of spring, one of transformation and renewal.