February

The lion of silence lives in your chest.

The lamb of joy, unshorn,

bundles near the golden friend,

warming each breath.

Through the blue sky in your trachea  

the terrible eagle of courage soars

without once beating her wings.

She is the mother of stillness.

Your vagus nerve a grape vine
tangled on your vertebrae,

your animal familiar
coiled at the spore.

Does She have eyes?
Are they rainbows?

Does She spiral up your spine,
green and glistening?
Or is She foraging
for mushrooms and grubs,
the musk of your fearless yearning?

Only you can name her,
your wish-granting animal of power.
The sign is this:
you lose your dread of madness.

All I can say is,

before you rise upward,

you must fall down into the loam

of your ancestor's body,

the darkness roots love to kiss.

Only here may you touch the stars

and fondle the dear light

that has not been born.