The wheel
Shifts gears,
And turning sets
Another cycle aflame.
Wind’s whisper pushes me,
To the temple.
It’s always like this —
Discarded reminders
And so much movement —
The living! —
Right in front of me.
(How can we be so blind?)

Rhythm left me behind –
I catch it again.
Add a new twist
With syncopating murmur –
More breathless flaws.
Goldfinch in the oaks
Is trading coats
With the trees,
Song-throb throat
Brings me back.

Let’s celebrate –
Passersby and permanent.
Remember again,
The treasures –
No luxuries these,
Just the finding.
We were magpies.
An old green shirt,
Its buttons all pulled off.
A wooden box, carved rose,
Full of sweet smoke.
Dragonfly’s pillow by the court.
All sculpted
Into sacred tools.

The ritual returns.
And who was I to question?
These gifts were for savoring.
Cattails and chattering chickadee.
A hunter wheeling on an updraft.
Slow progression of gold to gray.
And the following crow
Who orders the march.
Maybe this will be a better year.
Please, bring me back.
Bring me back.

Like a child in her mother’s dress,
I didn’t know if it were better
To grow into it
Or drop it by the road
And run naked into the field.
I want to embrace all of this,
Devour it and hold it
Closer than close.
We are children here.
We have lost the way.
We must unlearn,
And grow small
And grateful again.

So much wasted time and turning,
We are sightless before it.
Let me be the empty jar
Collecting sunlight.
Help me find my way back, love,
To the discarded treasure.
Weave me a blanket of dry grass,
Seeds and wind.
Wrap my hollow bones
In these unseen celebrations,
And bring me back.
Bring me back.
Bring me back.

Curious old crooner,
Tell me you will wait.
When the darkness is littered
Like glass shards behind me
And I tiptoe past
Cocooned walls
Into sunrise spotlight again,
Promise to bear witness.
Remind me,
How heavy the fruit,
And the splintering
Of all that birthing.

One hand resting at my hip,
Lead on, love,
To night’s soft edges.
Split the sea with dry hands.
Bony fingers on new skin.
Wrap me in your mellow voice.
Let the pictures melt away.
Hold me when the moon
Gathers clouds in the jar,
And bring me back.
Bring me back.
Bring me back.
Bring me back.



About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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