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.