and pitch-black night.
You've fallen back
into the arms
of your Beloved
who is whispering
you awake
into a time
when your body
knew all the rhythms
of the earth.
Feet, skin-tied
danced with urgent
certainty around
the sacred fire
with your family.
There was no question of home
or purpose or belonging.
You were not lost then.
The moon pushed
through the trees
to kiss your face.
The trees spoke.
The rivers laughed.
And you were the bird
that could soar for hours
over the land.
The blood spinning
through your body
is still this blood.
Is still the blood
that knows
where to put your hand
how to sleep
how to drive back
the bow and dream.
Knows how to make
a million things
into poems.
Knows
everything.
-Llora H. Kressmann
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