This life must be

some winding mountain road

unpaved by jagged stones of experience

some we call failures

some we call triumphs

all of which

are food for the hungry mouth

of a Big Picture

whose sacred egg shaped belly

is nourished by our every deed,

however wild or spontaneous

We whose words are forever

shaped and carved by our longing hearts

desperately attempting to translate

the coded language of our multilayered spirit

using this tongue as if some archaic fleshen tool

passed down to us from some grumbling grandfather

whose teeth are polished pearls, whose ears are umbilical

All the while

as we go chasing our desires through this circular village

the trees sing there constant old rooted song

of strenght and protection

as we continue our loving, our forgetting

our stumbling and struggling

this laboreous bearing of fruit

pregnant with a swelling necessity

to remember that which whispers into our

quiet spaces

Young child

compost your hesitancy

there is no time for shame or regret

let these two raged travelers come and go

as swift and quick as a passing wind,

throw them onto the fire

for there are true stories

still yet to tell

young child,

you are more than the sum of your mistakes

you are a canyon carved by a river

snakelike in its song of forever

making its way by any means

around boulders and steep slopes

kissing and tugging at

the entangled roots of Madrone and Oak,

you who are a boat,

a humming bird

a midwife

a cup full of stories

it is true

this modern industrial mechanical world

covered in propoganda

preaching of profit and individualism

has sureley taken its toll on your bones and memory

but their is still time

before mothers leafy hair

before mothers cobalt mineral filled veins

before her amethist heart

is torn

is excavated

and sold as some newly branded comodity

so, child

stand up

proud as a grove of redwoood trees

whose roots are connected under

this pulsing earth

sing that frenetic skat like song

calling into you

before your borrowed tongue

is returned for not articulating the beauty

and eloquence that dreams itself a world

to live into to.

this life must be

some mountanous road

and you

a weary travel

walking in prayer.