Must we always feel so young towards the end of things?
Like a kid stunned and kneeling on scraped knees,
Looking up to the circle of the sun, past a ring of ancient faces,
Laughing smooth our furrowed brows?
We are the roses of Jericho, and every time the sky was blue, we marveled at nature’s ambivalence.
Every time we thought about those who’d felt the fall before, we cast a line towards the future with a message for the pristine realms of darkness; the unborn, our angels.
Every time we send smoke signals to those very distant relatives, seeking advice from stars.
And we continue to love strangers, understanding we’d shared hay beds with them in past lives,
Or sat on the steps of Alexandria’s library studying the glint of dusk in their eyes,
Or breathed into each other’s clothes on the darkest of nights, perched atop ancient trees, nipped by the cold tips of screeching metallic entities during future manifestations for freedom.
I’ll keep mothering myself
Holding my wings out as I take my first steps and fall, eventually crawl.
I’ll keep fathering myself
Inviting my aching aspects to heal in the alabaster chambers of the old soul.
I’ll keep crying for my daughter and son,
The holy waters of our broken hearts,
So that their blessings may be quenched,
As they carry our torch, our banner of love,
Onwards, on their journey through infinite orbits,
Of tension and resolution,
That special dance only we know,
Taming the power of the Great,
Singing in praise of the Maker of the Trees.
I keep my eyes open for their records,
To help them draw the map back home.
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