Belly of the Cauldron
When do we get to stop looking for it?
What combination of elements concocts such a thing?
(how even the most heart-moving, soul-crushing dream fades in time)
— the hand to soothe — the relief of kissing — the exuberance — the mutual vision — the ritual — the habitual — the carefulness — the consecration — the conservation of all that becomes endeared to us as we circle in and in —
(hearth and heart, affinity of time and rhythm)
What transformative fusion hides in the dark belly of the cauldron?
Is it through degrees of light or dark that we face our metamorphoses?
It’s a biting wind —
one to make us move and forget.
And these things are impossible:
the right answer;
the way home.
That doesn’t mean we’ll ever stop looking.
(when you feel you need to,
don’t forget to leave a note)
12.1.16
(41/36)
bluejay. deer in the sumac. a proper december day. cloudy and chill. wind biting. numbs my fingers. no birds on the Marsh. cardinal quietly tsit-tsitting. ever-friendly chickadees. mallards circling down to where the wood floods. winter stomping grounds. 4 robins in flight. now and again, a slight touch of rain in the air. not enough to soak. come and go. northern harrier. the intersections along the migratory path. how many nerve endings in thumb- and finger-tips? what made these trees here all grow sideways? sun? wind? the opening of the understory has extended the view in the woods. 9 canada geese on the pond. 5 or 6 cardinals. how the traffic seems louder after the leaves are down. black ducks. robin.
looking for roots 