Way Will Open


This morning I give birth
to my own heart.
I feel Christ kicking
inside me.
Let Mary walk softly
through the garden of this body.
I am the way.

If I question my path,
this is what I do:
just enter the absence
where flesh whirls.
If dawn glows in my chest,
I follow the warmth.
It leads me where I Am.
Hope is a seed that sends
its blind cotylédon
upward, toward Spring.
But if my heart grows cold
like a stone in the frost,
I just root downward
toward the dark wet kiss
of the planet on my sole.
I admit it’s a primitive
method of discernment,
freed from every belief.
Yet this is why microbes rejoice
in my household of bones.
I am the song of the hive,
the hum of the smallest.
I no longer look for the mystical door.
I am the door.
Mine is the way of the worm
in sentient loam.
The way of an old man
holding his candle on a forest trail,
who can't see far, yet finds
his next step here
in a pool of gold.
Way will open, surely.
Hidden in my ribs, a jewel,
a hologram of blood and stars
handed down by many mothers.
I am woven of their silences,
love’s glistening silk,
gowning the nakedness of night.
What breathes me greens the Earth.

Image: Healing Love, Christ and Mary Magdalene,  Gallery Wrapped Canvas,
Sanctified Souls Print, Etzy

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