Seed of Self

A gaze is a conversation

full of

Silence.

I sit eye-to-eye

with the one who beguiles

me.

But the patterns are all there, splayed like radiant hieroglyphics on the walls of the

Temple of Until Now

for me to

translate,

contemplate,

relate to.

Burst like a supernova, images hurtling toward me

from, yes, even the moment the sky broke

open and the stars shimmied with all their celebratory splendor,

as mother yelled and father held

his breath in tear-filled wonder, with

this dewey, little ball swaddled in cotton.

Eye-to-eye I

rest, breathe, and slowly receive the next pulse of my days coming into view: that

crush who first seduced and then eluded me, the

Old Oak where I’d sit and strum my guitar, and the child who some-

where waits for me.

My life is an orbed mandala inscribed by the ragged angels perched on my shoulders

curved, weary but striving nonetheless. Here,

in the covered hush, I feel the angels breathing in

this moment shimmering and cracked open like a seed

fallen from a Magnificent Tree potent with rings of possibility, if

Time allows.

What Trauma fractures, Beauty heals.

Wounds open, bleed, and contract. Undulous like oceans. Wounds

are where skin begins again. Life is messy like that,

and Forgiving.

Come, crawl into this arbor. Nestle 'neath this arc.

Your futures giddy have all laid out the framework,

so plant the most extraordinary seeds gathered from your fields of imagination.

Vines will rise and tendril wild and whisper to you of your essence.