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 body.

Sink deeper, plant every breath.

To the Mother, you are sown.

Breathing and sorrow are seedlings.

Offer them.

Her grace will open you

like a sprouted wound.

Darkness will nourish you with

infinitesimal starry voices

rising from the furrows of her plough.

Beauty is an underground power.

It knows how to ascend,

just as it knew how to fall.

What has no name

meets no resistance.

Something green and

ineffably innocent trembles

from your astonished heart.

Here's the secret:

the warmth that draws us upward

is inside.

Painting: Detail, Mary Magdalene at the foot of the Cross, by Botticelli

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