( Read more... )

( Read more... )

the right hand migrates instinctively in slow, bestirring movements: fingers cold, close-clipped, and inked with the healing stain of turmeric (an ayurvedic poultice), marked thus with ministration, catch tears that trace the contours from cheek to eyes still-closed. the ache of dreams carried over like memories of a past life. awakening at dusk ( Read more... )

( Read more... )

( Read more... )

we who live on the cusps of chronology, who exist in infinite ecstasies and the tender temporality of pain, have such precarious knowledge of weeks and their orders. days ebb between solstice and equinox, as observed through the small panorama of windows -- the trees and sprawling verdure evidence of a slow, sun-kindled fire ( Read more... )

a late winter of heavy snow. we catalogue the birds who remain, or who arrive by the rite of migration: doves, cardinals, wrens, finches, starlings, chickadees, sparrows. what can a woman offer birds? -- only sustenance perhaps, seed through the whitening season. a winter abundance hung with icicles from the eaves or strewn on the snowmelt- ( Read more... )

( Read more... )

a new autumn birthed by the new moon, bathed by the thunderstorms of a final dying heat. the maternal season arrives with a low, bloody ache of the womb, the red field, the dan tien, radiant with fire and seat of meditative action. we receive the equinox as chronometry and eternal return. the intact expanse of ecstatic time, unmeasured and ( Read more... )

the weight of night gathers deep and still as water, and like water, nourishes the ripening season. by these simplicities are we sustained. the slow cycles of heat, the flourishing green, the merged generations of tree, fruit, and seed. orchard birds sing in darkness well before dawn; gratitude inspires the gift, antecedent rather than result. ( Read more... )