Start Again

Another night spent weaving stories
about how it is more interesting
to be the water
that is walked on - to offer up
in service of some greater ideal
the environment required
for others to be miraculous,
without needing to teach
or twist the thread
as though it didn’t run straight
from any thing to a whole universe.

To be the reeds that hide,
woven in a basket to hold
and growing wild along
the great river’s banks,
singing in the wind
which has come back
to play her waters,
wake waves and split
the surface just enough
that it seems as if movement
and starlight are no different,
as if what shines the sun
and pulses your blood are
the same thing:
just a simple reed reeling
to a rhythm in the endless space
between its borders, meant only
to amplify our obscure song.

TRACE

The Wild Reeds

Lineage and The Red Book

Proof of Heaven