where breath meets
and light explodes inside.
Sentences become questions
and the quest inexorably changes.
We are changed by this loving.
We are known by our seeing.
sand falling through healing fingers
enabling the dexterity necessary
to weave a blanket
from our unthreaded tapestries.
We cast a new clay vessel
from the shards of every heartbreak
from childhood hence.
Pull down each post from the fence
around our garden hearts,
to become firewood
that burns with our love,
to fire the pots
that will hold our future food.
This love is not for the feint,
though sometimes the fey.
Not for any part that clings
to our illusions of separation,
or clutches the familiar wretchedness
our wounds would bind us in.
We are learning that the only bounds around us
are the ones we've built.
And this bond of love
a tight rope over the jagged sharpness of our jadedness.
We let go
we hold on
we breathe into our weakness
to remember we are strong.
We practice togetherness
through each tremulous unearthing
of what is sacred inside us.
This tree of love we are growing,
watered by tears, prayers, orgasms, and gratitude,
enlivened by our pulling the weeds and rocks from the soil.
Spirit touches this body
through his hands,
through his lips caressing my brow.
I am a little girl lost in the woods,
and he plants a sign post.
I am a homeless priestess
and he shelters me,
while offering that we rebuild the temple
through our living.
I am simply and fully, finally, a woman
praying for freedom,
and he smiles and says, "come on, let's learn to be humans, being."