My words are

My words are

not perfect

but they are

full of heart.

I long and aim

to speak rubies

and sunbeams;

More often,

they feel plain,

though strong;

lacking the elegance and poise

of a

craftsman,

but holding

the simple

complexity of

soil and salt.

Humble,

because the true

symphonic lakes and

reservoirs of me

cannot be truly

spoken.

I would like to impart

my mysteries

with the eloquence and precision

of noon,

but they remain

veiled

by gauzy pearl sheets.

Especially now,

as night draws in

and the great

crossing lies ahead.

Inky alchemy.

Shafts of light.

A great path,

damp and dark,

opens.

I tread softly,

a night-pool lapping

under the dim

magnificence

of a black moon

rising.

Glory.

I turn in fear

but cannot bear not looking.

La Loba.

Under her shadowy

wing and root

I rest and reside,

Hers,

in this moment of passage

formidable, terrifying.

Greatest most loving

wild mother and

guide.

Even though

I ran to the lanterns,

a hotel lobby

without a key,

harkening to the

pangs of panic;

she is with me,

ferocious and kind,

burning, growling,

the river running beneath

an earthly life.