Words grow heavy in the womb.
There is so much I would tell you, love.
I have been too long,
Reposed on the forest floor —
A pyre for selves
Who passed before.
And the clouds blow high and fast —
The rain has passed,
But the gray remains to incubate
New windings.

I am foolish —
Driven by wild instinct and domestic grooves
Straight to the cliff’s edge.
One eye open,
Just in time,
I can step back from it now.
And, pregnant
With the contemplative solitude,
Weave words into fiery sun and sky —
Sculpt my arid and fecund faces
Into lovers —
Drop the defensive stance,
Claim the victory.

Nine golden goblets —
Filled to the brim —
Pass the bottle
And celebrate the reaping.
You see,
This is how I will come to you, love —
Dropping the quest for mastery,
Incomplete but whole.
The light shines forward and back.
Eyes cast down to the path,
I step up to it.

Patiently spinning the fine threads,
I turn it upside down
To get a new view.
And remember
All these lovers —
Monarch and moth,
Earth mother on the throne,
Lady in the garden walls —
And how they learned to dance —
To shine and fade —
To embrace —
To release —
To balance the scales at last.



About Emily

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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: