this dance,
of collectivity,
of returning to myself,
and finding god over and over,
its like discovering a forest inside of myself,
new territory, new ground,
a new harvest for a new season,
although there is no blooming, no flowers just yet,
I feel I am the stretching plant, which aches to grow,
I guess I am the stem then, growing further and further up,
Or maybe I am the seeds huddled in the centre of flower,
having bees come sit with me and pollinate others,
the green inside of me,
the details of the outside world in its patterns, in its scripts, in the people that hold whole universes inside themselves,
in the moments and angels that are sent to me,
the insects,
the glimpses of sun between window pane and tea,
this discovery of all my colours,
where can I throw love into?
What meets the eye?
and what sweeps me off my own feet?
who the fuck am I.
Comments