Becoming an us.

So long held in the strength of self,

warrior, mystic

all lone things.

Tempered with age.

Swan takes long in her becoming,

and wolf, after an era as lone, mates for life,

and births a pack, a tribe

from the union of two fiercely independent beings 

willing to practice togetherness.

 

Boar tusks interlock with goat horns 

and worlds are ripped apart in our stubbornness.

Then hooves move in tandem

stirring the compost,

aligning the rocks,

preparing the bed.

Learning how to hold the obsidian mirror,

to shine on each other’s darkness;

and the crystal,

to magnify each other’s light,

How to not lose one another

in the long shadows 

we ourselves cast.

How to build a love that lasts

through storms of fire

and the falling of empires,

the poisoning of oak

and the raging of what is broken, 

sweetbitter, 

the tender tinder 

within us

that would fuel a phoenix flame.

 

Your body perfectly fits mine.

Inner sanctum of my heart 

unlocks to the impression of your hand on my breastbone.

Harmony is born of very different voices

coming together in one song,

and though the tune at first seems strange,

our souls have known it all along.

Our crowns forged in the fire

we feed every time we turn towards each other:

the journey from co-dependence to independence to interdependence.

 

Unique pillars hold the temple roof

but they are hewn of the same stone;

the story of us written on every shared breath,

lips lost to the illusion of separateness;

the trees’ roots and branches intertwine,

two trunk hearts carved with one name:

mine, yet also yours,

alone, all one, together.

 

Searching for home.

Upturning stones,

disentangling dry roots

entrenched in unstable soil.

Where is the place to rest this dream-filled head?

Even wildflowers need a well-tended bed.

Even the phoenix has a soft nest,

when she is not busy dissolving

into the flame of her becoming.

These beings intrinsically reside within a belonging

that comes from knowing 

that they are indivisible from that which makes them.

 

Humans are the only creatures that claim to own bits of Earth,

and the only ones to believe in the existence of homelessness

on this garden planet.

This glowing orb that is all home.

I don’t need to own,

to claim,

none of this precious dirt need to be mine.

But I want to be claimed

by a living temple of wood and stone,

a soft nest of clay and earthbone.

I feel the ache of ancestors ripped from all that was known

forced to flee, to roam.

This greed to own

born of the fear of freedom

and addiction to others’ resources

displacing everyone.

Interfering with our innate connection to our fountain,

our taproot, our true source.

I cry the tears of a thousand people

who have buried dreams and children on the side of the road.

 

I want to go home,  

but it’s a place long lost

and not yet found again,

not yet emerged

from the ashes of a history

of aggressive agriculture and possessive war.

We don’t need to own, to claim,

no place need belong to us.

But we need to belong to place.

Some place with space 

for our seeking roots and tender hearts.

 

I don’t want land to belong to me,

I simply want to belong to Her,

and thus, to get Her, to gather, together.

The power of being loved as we are.

Radiantly spinning around our own stars

born from the willingness to writhe and rise in mutual burning.

This effulgent elegance, this single branch

of a dream-tree long understood as essential to the unfolding

of a heart’s prismatic holding.

 

I am made partially of him, now.

Cells rubbed open by an unquenchable desire for knowing

of what we are truly made.

The words whispered in the depths of our mornings, mournings, moorings,

but a brush painting vague shapes across the ocean upon which we sail.

This boat made bit by bit,

each breath taken together a well-laid plank,

the lavish tears a lacquer against the inevitable demise of our preconceptions

into something that will wear our finish, but never break our bough.

This ship, made of every wish ever made to know the marrow of love

rocks on the uncertain certainty that we can never be more or less than our wildest imaginings:

that we can never be all we hope, yet that is all.

 

The undiscovered country looms before crystal-colored eyes,

and for a moment nothing is known

but the feeling of this heartbeat under my ear as home,

and the ground quaking to reassemble into an Earth where my island has been obliterated

and in its place stands a bridge;

backdrop to an unfailingly open palm. 

 

Receiving the unending acceptance and unblinking reflection

that transforms shame into celebration,

that makes art of every fat roll, every wrinkle, every disappointment

and dribble of well-crafted cynicism,

that calls and entices and awakens me into the fullness of the shape love would invite me to fill.

Which is exactly as I am, 

precisely imperfectly fully the me that sings,

minus the surrender of my brokenness,

and with the silhouette of tandem wings.

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© 2018 by Medicinal Poetry