Let go of what you’ve protected with the thorns of mothering, distrust, and anxiety. Let go all the seeds that are for sowing.
One day, you might trust that the mere prayer of it is enough. What medicine will grow? Maybe only the thorns and brambles know. Maybe only the dry leaves of autumn know. Maybe somewhere I know, too.
The wind and the water are whispering, quietly, steadily, “Keep going.”
This kind of pressure is God, someone once said to me. All I thought then was, “you all think too much.” Lost in symbol and story. Endless and exhausting lust for knowing what can’t be known.
And here I am again, alone.
Yet I am ready for the risk of life. What choice do I have? The seed casing broke in a dream one night.
My weapons are dull and I am weary. There is war everywhere I look.
Everywhere I see signs of readiness.
Signs of song.