I had a dream that I was small and dense--just a cell,
a dwarfed red star.
My sensing split apart and became specialized. In the detail,
in the unknowing, I found myself alone and blind and focusing, focusing,
like a manic lens trying to find the best, best picture. I didn't know I was such a creator of worlds,
such a master of complexity!
New roads, new angles, old dreams reborn in a new skin, having lost all the fat of youth,
recognizable only with my lenses closed and the cell walls open. They taste of old granite,
baby cedar and spirit medicine. They smell of life and death
at thirty-three thousand feet.
Oh yeah, I know this place.
I know this place. It feels familiar because it is!
Here is the ancient mother, and I remember she must enter so that I may cling,
the baby to her back, the rider to her horse, the dye to her wool to her grass to her sun--
any way, any way I choose--just see her in.
Just let her know in her way, the slow way, the way of the full-hand radiating, the way of the
feet-shifting-hips-swaying, of the details cast like pollen on her ocean, of the patterning taken as a matter of course; but swirl-course, sound falling, mouth forming visions.
In this way, in the sweet blindness, I recognize the pulsing red star by feel, by beat, by gravity.
Center of my world.
Mother of all hearts.