Sometimes it's like this:
Stripped down, bare bones. Handfuls of dirt, clinging to the earth.
Bold propositions. Expectant, waiting.
I know the news is coming.
The page is fresh, seductive, alluring. We battle rounds, make love, sit waiting.
Achieving volume for practice sake. Laying it down, new territory awaits.
I know. You are coming.
Dear destiny, I have called you. I will trust your arrival. I know what to listen for. Where to draw my seeing eyes. Attentive, indulgent, soft, whispering light. Defocused, receptive, poignant, inspired.
I did not want life to come again. I did not want life. I did not want the gravity.
They all want to know which way for me. They all want to know.
Sickness of hatred, be gone from me. Questions and koans penetrate me. Power runs deeper, and wider still.
I shake in my body, shivering bones. I breathe, and I pray, and I manifest worlds. Not all put together, seamlessly. But sacred and holy, I trust the unfolding. She taught me to do so.
I want life again. I welcome it in. I want it to come, grounding, anchoring in. Enjoying this flesh, moving about, I find the refreshment and open my mouth. Opening outward, opening in, spouting out to the cosmos, uncontrollably. There is no reckoning with the involuntary.
It comes again, softly, with grace. It comes in rushing, unmasked, and messy. The rush may frighten, stimulate to extreme.
This life comes calling, darling. Persistently.