It has been a week of shifts and movement. A friend announces the birth of her first grandchild along with the arrival of a litter of kittens. Prayers go up and come back answered. A quiet space is carved in a weekend of torrential rain where the introverts cozy up with their individual activities – crochet, writing, reading, puzzle solving – comforted by knowing their pack is quietly present in our shared cave.
Rest up, folks! It’s a bumpy month out there in the world. The news is not terribly cheerful on the climate front. A lot is happening out in the world. My personal strategy is to occupy a still space. Harvest. Make. Preserve. Pray. Breathe.
Also, clean and organise our cozy cave as I squirrel away and prepare for winter. But before I launch myself onto a cleaning jag preparatory to repainting my living room and kitchen space, here is the weekly poem.
Moving Tongues of fire licking forest floor clean Flood water lapping spills over sandbags Earth surface sinking, cracking, fissuring The wind has turn its back on itself, us Somewhere someone is dying, as we will too, the silky caul of birth slips its veil off the perfect newborn, fearless, serene As the Buddha passing through the sabre-toothed Jaws of the gaping Lion’s Gate Present imperfect also has perfect logic that is its magic Dance with angels on That pinhead, our needle sharp future For now, kittens’ downy pelts snuggle up To suckle in a huddle, mother prone Feeding their soft perfection as paws knead Her loosened belly in a closet where No fires burn or floods rage Ill winds still The earth is her firm and steady heartbeat Everything moves with its own logic That is the magic in the present We brood love and faith and hope with our young. Empires are lost Lullabies are sung on Copyright © Bee Smith, 2021. All rights reserved.