We emerged from heat, two hydrogen atoms, attracting an other, sensing love across the flurry and joining forces to become more.
We swirled slowly slowly coalescing and coagulating into harbors of heavy elements, galaxies of gummy, godly glory.
We moved like molasses, gurgling in such thick dark I could only feel the thrumming of your tentacles. You persisted and I listened.
We burst forth, breaching Balugas, journeying between endless poles, pursuing lonely scrapes of shoreline with only our celestial compass and friendly tale flips for reassurance.
We laid low, tucked in turtle shells, proud of our patterned protections, our itty bitty claws scraping pebble’d sludge, and discovering delightful green shoots that burst with juice.
We stand! We dance! We sing! All are Mother Goddess Mother Goddess Mother Goddess!
We fight, so often for so long, falling under fury and ferocity and fear, over and over and it seems Hell is born alive among us.
We summon our wolves, Alpha’s ahead of the pack, here we come – one last raid on human camp before the humans drive us from our home forever.
We nestle in our woven nest. Our parents, so broad and so keen, feed us seeds from their beaks. They nudge us out before we’re ready and we tumble, flutter, soar on gusts.
We root and reach and drink and absorb and watch for ages and ages. You are down the hill a bit, by the arrow rock. I wave, many times. Creatures come and go.
We, the bride and child of a Nile scribe, encourage our father to meet Pharoah’s deadlines.
We, Zazen friends, contemplate also moss and ponds and the bristling winds between the bamboo.
We succumb to coughs, hang our heads and cringe before our masters, we rend our tattered clothes in ruin. We lose each other too quickly.
We float along currents, lay on cushions under smoky domes, rise to sample figs and fruit. I splash you with warm water as you shuffle by.
We can hear the clop clop on cobblestones through the window. I am on the loom as you burst in the room with your scrolls and your excited eyes.
We command the waves, brisk, blistering, intrepid explorers, a lotta rope, a lotta fish. On my night shift I spot the new world. From then on we are nervous.
We cut fast through the cane, le Plaine du Nord au Saint Dominique. Come my brothers, to the big white house, then down the road – Port Au Prince – we’ll take the town. Tonight will mark our holiday.
We stayed on the move, our band of mysterious eyelashes, Romas along the road, pausing only that time I was thrown in prison. But you rescued me, and never let me forget it.
We thought we had a good thing going. Onward and upward. But it was all gone by ’29. You threatened to jump like our acquaintances, but I knew you didn’t mean it.
We survived a jalopy crash. We regenerated limbs from stem cells. We assisted breakthroughs and then retired from public view.
We transformed again and again and again and during the Great Turning we supported transformation in everyone we met. During the Great Turning, we were great.
We peacefully strolled down to the river, drawing up clean water. Then back up the hill to our earthen homes, pausing to enjoy a breath, grazing bright greens by our side, collecting eggs from warm cob, sharing smiles with passing loves. You nodded at me and I knew.
We are mother and child, our last winter in this old house. We continue.