creating more space for the generative darkness.
An inhalation that opens the interior
– in-held breath –
so there is (no longer) an exterior –
only self, whole.
a bow to the Others who
Yellow wattle shining in afternoon light,
gold-lit green fierceness at midwinter.
The same yellow in the lemons,
round-bright and sweet with sour.
I write from myself and for myself,
from what is not myself,
to be more truly myself
– transparent –
cutting through illusion to the real:
tree, sunlight, breeze, bird.
Rainbow lorikeets, faster than
my eye can follow,
entering me with their feather-selfs,
opening me to what I am not, and to
the interplay of complements without hierarchy.
Relishing this place, this
everywhen – for I am,
now, I am;
will not be, one day;
have not been, before –
but now – NOW –
I am –
and the earth embraces me,
one small molecule of
her curvaceous flesh.