Spell for Planting

Here, we are
slow and measured,
salted skin
under sun —
the fluidity of movement,
listening to words
from the bone.

Here, we are
eyes and heart
in flight —
flowers and feathers,
greeted
by swallowtails
and goldfinches.

Here, we are
our mother’s children,
open and patient,
bowls waiting
to be filled.

Here, we are
the call,
and the response,
the feast
and words of dust,
the confluence
of calendar and clock.

Here, we are
relishing the curiosity
of being biology,
accidental chemistries.

Here, we are
bluebirds
and buntings —
brilliant in flight,
subtle in song.

Here, we are
water,
pooling in the low
places,
and pulling the shadowed
downstream.

Here, we are
losing
the divisions,
the nothing of everything,
eating and eaten,
drinkers of blood
and of nectar.

Here, we are
the balance found
on uneven ground,
not using the magic,
but becoming the magic.

Here we are,
crawling,
hands and knees
deep at the water’s edge,
and she rises all around.

Here we are,
digging,
clay-caked fingers,
and planting ourselves
in the good dirt.

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About Emily

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

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