Let the rain touch your face.

Let it reach your deepest place.

Brushing your core’s edges with soft flowing tendrils.

Cool, because you are warmed by your walk.

Melting immediately into your pores. 


Flesh drinks like soil.

Yearns for the caress

the gentle press

of water that has traveled so far:

through ages and layers of atmosphere

through every river, every being that breathes

over and over again from the beginning hence,

just to dissolve into your outstretched palm.

Ground is white.

from snow or salt I cannot tell.

How we compensate for weather 

without considering the causes 

 

and blessings

 of climate.

 

Sky shifts.

one shade of grey to another,

even the layers of glass cannot keep the bleak out.

 

For a reason, the world sleeps.

for a season, color vacates

and warmth is a dream remembered,

of easier times.

A thing saved for tropical climes.

Nothing can live forever.

Even the Sun rests.

In our myths,

   the Sun always dies.

as all heroes, curious of what the Underworld knows.

 

Pluto, the keeper of that cavernous place

 laughs at attachments,

mocks our silly attempts to hold onto life

like something tangible.

Winter reminds us that life is a circle,

Color is ephemeral,

and Fire knows when to go out.

And when to stay in.

 

As babes in wombs dream of the children they will become,

as seeds in ground envision their eventual blossom and fruit,

so we dream our awakening,

so we hang on to promise.

Through deep layers and long shadows.

Through haze of grey on grey,

white on white,

day on day.

Through the illusion of nothing

and the great numbing waste.

 

Don’t pour salt on your roads.

Let the snow slow you down.

Let the ice remind you

how precious each step,

how precarious each moment.

Move just enough aside

to prepare the soil

for the new life to come.

I am that rock on the river bottom,

rendered rotund by countless days of rushing water.

 

I was not always smooth.

Once I had crags and crevices.

Gnarly places,

where things got stuck.

Debris of old lives

hiding in my skin.

Became more than I could bare,

carrying all the broken bits,

rubbing myself raw with my own roughness,

overwhelmed by my own heaviness.

No one was brave enough to risk the scratches and rendings

of holding my sharp edges.

So I fell to the bottom.

Where there was nothing but darkness and moistness.

Water, ceaselessly rushing over me.

Tumbling me just enough to reach all of my places,

but mostly just letting me be in it.

I lost track of time, shape, or anything else seemingly certain.

 

Vanity melted in the gently relentless reshaping.

Who knew I was so attached to my untouchability.

no more

no more

I am not identifiable by any obvious means,

indistinguishable from the other stones polished by patience. 

I am just that rock on the river bottom,

 

sitting at the ground of being as it all rushes by above me.

Curious enough to watch it go by, 

let it rouse me enough to travel a bit further downstream,

but mostly just let it be.

Though it will take more time than I care to count,

eventually, eventually,

there will be no more substance here.

Just as there are no longer edges on my cool grey skin,

there will be no leaves or logs or bits of bird's nests,

and there will be no stone.

Just the water, 

carrying it all away.

Sometimes we cannot look at a thing directly,

only its reflection.

The connection to Source made through pulsing perception.

Careless gaze an invitation

to our own destruction,

as Medusa rendered immobile

any who would not humble

themselves in the presence 

of the primal life force.

 

Sunlight is blinding straight on.

But we can witness it in rippling sparkling water,

growing food,

the brilliance of the Moon,

the effulgence of our songs.

Wind can only be seen by its effect.

The force of its motion only visible on what it has moved.

Music is intangible,

its essence undefinable.

It cannot be felt with skin,

or deciphered with mind,

yet it transforms time, ​

spirals into our cells,

entrains our hearts with rhythmic spells,

sparks awake our DNA

in a chain reaction of activation

until there is no telling

who is playing,

and who is being played.

 

Water is immobile on its own

yet ever flowing

on this planet beholden 

to gravity and slope,

wind and condensation,

perpetual evaporation,

rapid temperature fluctuation,

and all the things that give water her properties.

 

Life is made of life.

We are all built of the selfsame dust, 

dependent upon gravity and fire to become stars.

Nature knows no such thing as isolation.

This dimension is made of mirrors.

We are defined by our interpenetration

of everything.

It is the dappling of sunlight that gives it meaning

and allows our perceiving.

The wind-made waves that let us observe the water

as it reflects the bottomless sky.

Please reload

© 2018 by Medicinal Poetry