Sown

Try not to rise above your longing.
Sink deeper,
plant pain in the earth.
Try not to rise above your weariness.
Sink deeper,
plant sorrow in the loam.
Try not to rise above your flesh,
plant every breath.
You too are sown
in the body of a Mother,
roots, stem and branches
permeated with her tears.
Walk barefoot.
Any place in the forest
is holy.
Sorrow and desire are seedlings.
Offer them.
Our Lady's grace will open you
like a sprouted wound.
Midnight will nourish you with
infinitesimal starry voices
rising from the furrows of her plow.
Beauty is subterranean.
It knows how to germinate
in darkness,
how to ascend, just as it knew
how to fall.
Some green ineffable
innocence trembles
from your astonished heart.
Here is a secret:
the warmth that draws you upward
is below.

This poem appears in both English and German
in our newest book, 'Tavern of Awakening' (see below).
Painting: Mary Magdalene at the Cross by Botticelli.