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| milkweed waiting on the wind... |
to crack open the old
medicine seeds…
fire magic
pops them out of sleep
and forces them to open,
to show themselves alive
and reaching green
into the light.
Anger moves me.
I stamp my feet
in my refusal dance
and call myself
not-mother
not wife
not-lover…
and I crank up electric guitars
on the car radio,
step too hard on the gas
and launch myself
into some kind of other
where I become part
of a sacred circle,
bellow sounds
from deep in my heart
and shake
the toenail rattle
while Grace begins her passage
into light.
I receive
the gift of story…
I am moved by other's words
to feel
the kind affirmation
of the music
that wells from grotto springs
cool and deep and somewhere
beneath these moss covered stones
lying heavy on my heart.
Thank you.
Perhaps I need
no longer feel ashamed
to be a poet in a closet
with no name…
but can emerge now
like a shoot of green
upward, reaching…
sister
granddaughter
shaking a rattle of toenails
as Grace passes
a whisper of petals
falling from the tree
like tears
in the May sun.
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