I wish you mouthfuls of laughter and warm cozy hands and bowls of nourishing soup and starry-starry light glittering at the periphery of your eyes as if someone or something is tapping you gently on the shoulder, whispering a song from your childhood that makes you smile and weep at the same time, in a good way, like when you know who you are.
Say yes to an invitation from Hades
received in a handwritten scroll
tied with a white string
hidden in a rock crevice
and read one evening
as the moon sliced the sky
At 1pm on Saturday, we don our white bee suits. Me in a hip length jacket, and Annelies, my 82 year old spirit-mother, decked out in full jumpsuit. We zip each other’s heads and faces into the protective netting
and slowly approach the hive.
I bought the jade earrings today
the ones shaped like butterfly wings
and I sang along with her, following some tune she had once or was now inventing ~ for the leafing greenly spirits of trees, la la la, and we’re doing twirls on the bike path, she in her wheelchair and me on my feet ~ and the blue true dream of sky, la la la, and now we’re singing in harmony, and for everything that is natural, that is infinite, and now we’re singing quite loud and passionately ~ that is YES! YES! YES!
But it was in witnessing my father’s passing, that I was woven into all that is holy, and given a new heart that beats with fierce respect for the great mystery and cycle of life
I made him a tiny vest for when we go out on adventures, because otherwise he says he feels naked. He specifically asked for a turquoise leather vest, but at 3am, all I had was velvet. I made a tiny pattern and lots of tiny stitches, and off we went for a walk with the moon. It’s good not to keep the moon waiting when she calls.
I’m walking down a staircase that wraps around the edge of a seaside cliff. It’s cool and foggy. At the bottom of the stairs is a heavy wooden door with iron hinges. There is no doorknob or handle. As I approach, the door opens, and I am flooded with aquamarine light.
The current between us
yes, is grace
and in moments of candor
your eyes, your face,
but not the hunt
and not the prey
and not to be pinned
by my wings to your tray.
Oh, to be Georgia O’Keefe, painting vagina-flowers, in the 1930’s with Alfred Stieglitz watching
from behind the lens.