Monday, April 1, 2013

Beginning is a heartache.

Beginning is a heartache.
Beginning is a seed, with tender
flesh and deep desire
for singular attention,
for rain and light
and cloud and wind.

Lean with me into this rubbing, 
this prodding,
this aching flesh of beginning,
not for polish or protection but for bursting open,
for ripening and rootedness and
becoming more and more.

Take me, touch me,
by sun and by moon,
by hand and by heart,
and we are permeable and
enmeshed and timeless
even as a thousand hungry ghosts
entwine with us as we begin.

Beat with me into a heart,
a wild kind of heart, a steadfast tree trunk
kind of heart, deeply rooted
in the story of us, branches
beating loudly with the blood of
bud and blossom and
delicious fruit of you and me,
feeding the hungry ghosts of
old loves and lovers and stories,
putting them to easy rest
deep beneath the fertile ground of
our brave heart song and
our bountiful harvests
and our effortless letting go at
season’s end of all that
no longer brings life.

Sing with me this song
of beginning and beating
and blossom and bravery,
and we will never end, and we
will ache forever in each other’s arms,
leaning always into the more,
into the deep, into the tree.