Ready or not, death can come when we don’t expect it.
(I could not sing because it touched my heart too heavy.
Sound pierced a balloon of tears. For loss. For love in another realm.)
And so might an afternoon of delight.
Someone’s arms lift me to dance.
The life that is still here begs to move through me.
Hips are meant to swing and knees are meant to bend.
Feet are meant to shuffle, legs to leap, and arms to reach and sway.
The part of me that is still healing might want to condemn that I could ever forget.
And then the queen in me laughs at my own sweet childishness.
For a moment, I remember how to pray, how to use my heart as it was designed.
I need not be so hungry.
Life and her lessons akin to the arc of the moon.
Oohlalala. Lala. Lala. And all the other sounds that want to be expressed. Aah.
There is space in which I may reside.
In which I may relinquish.
Goddess speaks and we listen if we’ve learned anything on the path.
Lift all ignorance as beauty reveals.
Showing herself through my own shoulders.
Through the warmth of the desert sun, the expressions of soulful desire.
Through the pages written and the stories lived by those that are now gone.
Through the felt perception of life resurrected as a season arrives in her blooms and scents.
There are no wrong directions.
But still, some I would recommend against.
Anything that is not in scholarship for your truest devotions are questionable.
No denial of freedoms stolen. Here. There.
And yet, for a moment, liberation in my lap.
How could we not weep for those that know death and those that know delight?
They are one and the same upon my heart.
There is not a single greater moment I wish to belong to.