Heaven tried to warn me
about Chiron —
the echo of the wound,
circling back round again.
Look right into his eyes.
Face that fear.
After all,
I’ve been doing that work anyway:
rattle a skeleton key
and the ghosts come out to dance.
I have to close my eyes,
or look out the window,
or finally run away
to that ground where I can bury my feet
and wait to remember how I am held,
even when I am not held.
And what would The Fool have to say about that?
It’s a thin rope that moors us.
And the tide is getting higher.
Still,
trust life.
You are held.
looking for roots 