For my people, who encourage and model for me the sacredness of receiving, being, stretching and growing
Where would I be without you all?
Dead that’s where.
Or hobbled together with sticks and twigs of bitterness and small explanations.
It has felt so lovely to be known, to be cared for.
When I open up that little crooked piece of paper, torn and tattered,
folded over and scribbled upon.
The one with the words that are maybe whispered, but not said too loudly,
it is scary, it’s complicated.
It’s a ripping of sutures and staples and places sewn.
Well here it has been laid,
I smoothed the paper down, I pointed to words here and
I asked if you wanted to keep reading, or better yet, did you know these words?
Have you said these words?
And here’s the best part.
Your eyes got shiny.
A little beamy, a little starbursts in the irises, that rush of
something motherly, something truthful, something like a chord of cashmere, silky
sinew, delicate, cotton candy wisps, spun and surrounding.
Something brush and steely, inky and grainy, pulpy and pounding, drum beats and thrums
of ancient wisdom seeded in the soil,
dug in dirt and rock and clay, in abundance sometimes without the rain.
They say, I got you.
We’ve always been here, getting you.
The chord throbs in strength, boisterous and beaming, wildly glowing,
loud thunks of new thoughts clicking in place.
A twisty thing that swirls and ties together.
A dance that doesn’t stop.