She knows me.
Though, I haven’t seen
All that she is…..
All her anger and angst
Frozen at times, treacherous.
I know her
From the safety of my footing.
She can pull me, She pulls me, I am pulled
Not by ebb, but by longing
A craving for our meeting.
She allows me to see her.
I am but painted doll
Easily tripped into a fall.
We are cyclic, together.
Friends as we are
I see her placid face
Fierce, reflecting sky.
Her cheeks aged, rippled
As they were at the beginning.
She’s my crone
My witch of calm
Curled slightly
With wavy hair
Rebelling,,,,,
The straightening of her tides.
Her voice, mesmerized magnetic
To my metal ears.
Grounded by emotion
She nudges me
To a rhythm depth tone.
My womb vibrates
With her motion
At the same time
I am her birth.
Her movement is mine
I am she, like her,
The invertebrate
With liquid body
Skin of whatever color
You wish to call me
We are deep in wrappings
Around dense mineral
Earthen cultrate creatures
Terrestrial mud makers
That simple creation act
Pottery, clay, and figure
Shaped by moisture
Solidified by solar storm.
I feel like she is forever
Whose depths
I know by kindred.
We raise our spirits
(For me, this once)
To mist and cloud
Transform, evaporate
Until our salt
Is yanked from our souls
And we fall
To new fawns
of phosphorescence
If I were to say
“Listen to her”
You would have
Already heard
