Grace

Blood, bone, clarity,

intention wide as sky,

milked for weed and forest,

dried for desert and snake,

the shadowland of sacred waters

sings the cry of the loon,

singular and plural as the moon.

 

There is yet no I,

in the circles of the shadow,

in the shades of meaning

drawn of blood and bone,

drawn from the bag of skin

thrown, thin, over discovery.

 

A skater sheers the thick veneer

masking the flooded healing,

coated fisherman drop their lines

through a man-sized hole,

hungry, mountains rock the world

on steam and shimmer,

until the dawn of spring.

 

When she comes she shakes

shadow from eclipses

fingers the banks of every lake

pushing back the hard places,

pulling on the knotted hair of roots,

holding on, holding in

the sky roiling and raining

down through the valleys

into the abyss

to partake of her first round drink

of her own waters.

 

Make of it what you will, but it is possible to live an entire life bereft of soul–it drifting above your head, your body just a string below a balloon. Coming home to soul means also coming fully alive to body.

©  Andrea Mathews, 2014

courage

 

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