When? A hymnal I sing. A poem I walk. Today? and Today? and Or will it be tomorrow? Meanwhile the lilacs have opened. Barefoot, I stick my nose into their heady splendor. Wet nose. Wet feet. Mama, from the screen door. What are you doing? And, Mama, wait, I want to come with you.
Of course! Of course you can come with me, daughter of mine! Everywhere. Everything. Except tomorrow, or will it be today? When that burrowing happens, that twice-in-a-lifetime journey into some dark, wildflower ether, the only route through which new life can come. That solo-journ, which takes no partners. Not even you, splendor-child. Not even you, melon-faced heart of mine. But I’ll be singing you songs. The whole way. I’ll be the harp-zither and the flute and the drum. The fife and the bird and the crimson horn. And I’ll be making my way back up that river to you. Because of you. Towards you. And when I return? I’ll have broken, split, fledged, and be carrying a radical, soft-beating gift in arms.