Gifted a word to move into them,
those places made a cauldron by delight and terror
and the simple wonder of seeing,
those places where there is no difference between exhilaration and dying
between birthing and being
all of it becoming, always anew.
Shown the self that is the mountain
rooted deeper than the waters that flow beneath the waters
feeding my roots
Rising higher than the fires beyond the fires of the celestial vault
in which my fingers paint all that ever is to be.
I walk across myself, shaggy legged gait hitching as all I birth
plays about my paws and hanging belly–
nourishing myself with my starry mother’s milk
offered to us all, as hospitality always is–
paws that pace my flesh, knowing every riven place,
healing wound and hidden pool, the same ground
greeted again and again, as new voices each step stirs.
My hawk-winged one peals forth above my
many ochre-marked faces, crescent-crowned,
peals within
a marking of Self, whole and owned
by each thing which roots together, woven
as that sky is woven
by my clever fingers and facile tongue
limned as all is in the glory of what still lies dreaming
lies at the heart of this seeming which is community
and place.

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