August 4, 2014
Listen, lay your ear against the dirt and close your eyes
and imagine you feel the earth’s inhale;
layers of rock shifting, one deep, deep breath after another.
Realize, there brews a warmth within the dirt
a warmth so raw, you would be heated and melted like wax
if you inched any nearer.
For now, you don’t.
And around you go,
you around one, two around the Sun.
You are pulsing clay and dust.
As you are, dust and stone, you remain energy. You remain whole.
Feel that, That low rumble, the growl. That is Madness.
Shifting, gentle Madness.
Place your little head so you may lay your lips down to know the textures of the most intimate parts of your Mother.
She rests, burning beneath you, bound to feed you by law, so she supplies everything that you want, all you need.
And she shelters you, and sheds tears from her skies.
She weeps for you, and when you smile, so does she smile.
That smile will make you laugh with her, and her laughter is a wild wind and your laughter is a feather…
But there is also sadness… For while a child, you loved your Mother, but you have since grown into your own woman. One full of contempt, and rules, and in those years of adolescence through adulthood, you set yourself atop of her and stomped away her love.
While she hurt, she grew, and though you’ve done sad and wicked things, she begs you, “Grow, sweetheart. Grow.”
And whether you do or not, when you die, she’ll still take you to her breast, to her heart, and she’ll love you as a Mother always does: always.
Back into the fire, to be remolded, reshaped. Remade as wax, and clay, and dust.