January 2018
You said to let it happen,
so I wait for the dream to keep finding me
in the teasing of a winter that doesn’t know how to be.
It is still,
mostly,
dark.
Outside the holy door,
garden gate,
and inside the temple,
human renovations in our holy hands:
hearth to head,
bone and blood.
You said it and I wrote it down,
and I remembered:
knees,
then forehead to the dirt.
We hope we know better now.
We must walk and then wait,
and walk and then wait,
and walk and then wait,
and walk and then wait,
and walk and then wait,
and walk and then wait,
and walk and then wait —
make our Reverence at its threshold
(but not before we get there)
and Breathe
(and breathe).
I busy my hands with what’s in them,
perhaps to sing something new into the world,
kneel in the wind,
kneel to the moon,
and pray your hands are busy, too.
looking for roots 