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.
Harping On 