ques que c'est

There is a German word that means

the Green Light emanating from an Oak tree.

Can you see it? Her sweeping branches kissed in golden hue.

The ancient arms bearing more memories than stars,

her creeping toes kissing and tickling the mycelial web.

Rooted and keeping the ground as she is kept.

Wind whispers in her hair, a song more

soothing than any mother-tongue. To me, although

not me alone.

Is it a hollow bone? The familiar snapping of wings

in migration. Where we remember we are always moving. Even

when standing still, we know that only change is constant.

The other night I dreamt, preamble to a ceremony kneeling

in the street and begging

Please

take this mother-wound away from me.

The familiar purgative pulling up and out

Please

take all this sorrow

How much I miss

The unknown safety

Whose tender embrace soothes all. Is this

what we’re looking for?

It is an offering. A sacrifice upon this altar, sacred.

I give my pain

and in turn find a holiness where

the hole once was.

A whole being erupting

from lonesome.

Many poets greater than I have wandered and realized,

there is no returning to nascent places.

It is all a dream

Remembered or deferred.

So I must create it. Claim it

Get lost and return to in the forgotten.

The water, the wind, the fire, the stone

The breath, the light

The stars

The sky