Try not to rise above your weariness; sink deeper, plant sorrow in the loam.
Try not to rise above your body; sink deeper, plant every breath.
To the Mother, you are a seed.
Your body is a seed, your breath is a seed, your pain is a seed; offer them.
She will open you up so gracefully, like a wound.
Darkness will nourish you with infinitesimal starry voices, rising from the furrow where you spill.
Beauty is an underground power; it knows how to ascend, just as it knew how to fall, namelessly.
What has no name meets no resistance.
Something green, unspeakably innocent, trembles out of your broken heart.
Now here's our secret: the warmth that draws us upward is inside.
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