From the Throat of Your Own Bones

heart earIn the countless echoes of the night
the hearing happens:

you know the whisper
because it comes from the throat
of your own bones

A dangerous syllable
slick with lightning blood

If today is not the day for hearing…

That ancient song of earth
sings itself in your animal subterranean

thrusting leaf crimson
and fertile debris
while the wind creature unfolds
and hugs your ribs
at midnight
speaking the images
trying to break out

Hear you not the
shell spiraling upward
in indigenous sea sounds
of magenta mellifluous?

The way in opens with each step

If today is not the day to feel it…

If today is not the day
to turn an ear towards your
bones exquisite…

Crack of ice flow
River walking out of the
depths into your present

If today is not the day….

When is?


Bare Bones

bare tree at dawnYour flashy garments gone
And stripped austere you stand
Thrust extravagant your eager hands
In splashing persimmon-dawn.

Who but you owns your bones?
None other than sips your roots
Or with delicate fingers caress
The moments eternity loans.

Be not impatient for the buds
That flow from your marrow blood
But revel in your naked form
In the season’s quiet flood.

Believe in your bones sincere
In quiet unadornéd dance
Who you are in winter
Is who you are all year.

The Woman Who Sings Over Bones

CizZjcGWEAAhy_AShe sees the wounded ones
and gathers up the bones
from the ground below
scattered among twigs
and ancient stones

she gathers the bones
like a bee that roams
collecting pollen from many homes
Then sowing what needs to be sown

Her pockets overflow
with bones from
creatures both known
and unknown

she sets the dead
on the altar above the hearth
and begins her song
of fire and earth

Her cupped hands hold
a delicate warmth
a most precious thing, behold:
a tiny spark forms

she breathes in slow
begins to blow
singing a charm
the red flame grows

it begins with a whisper
and ends with a roar
she sings from her heart
sings to restore:

“this passion is yours
this passion is mine
a spark of earth
a spark of life
be free
be seen
be whole
in awe
in all

some hear her spell
and return to life
their skeletal state dispelled

others have not yet grown
the ears to hear
out of fear
so remain mere bones

She smiles and asks a simple thing:
“what else is there to do,
but to love and to sing?”

Image Credit: From Art of Enchantment