Amidst a cloud of my own beats and sound I reach for a prismatic mist just out of inner sight.
It's so pregnant with possibility here and there I sense my own fecund softness come alive.
I tap into vulnerability so I may be molded clay and speak into the next version of knowing and beyond into the unknown as river flowing.
Is this how medicine women become xylem and phloem and get tattooed by ancient tree resins that build lasting bridges to a dream seen in their womb?
Is this how new councils of elders and helpers and guides call in the foundation to then lay circular beams for the youth?
To gather in the memory of shade the cedars laid and then died in winter to cure and become shelter for this summer bloom?
Is it too fast? Too slow for you to ride? These words of mine so fluid like me finger and tongue tides.
My poetry lingers. Because something about it speaks directly to you.
Not sure if it's your heart what's holding you back now that bounds are free from you.
Whats freezing your flight when you've fought your last fight? Shifting softly this poem fades indigo into the night.
Love
Em*Ra
