Make good with your ghosts.
Dance the illumination
with the archer
and her flaming arrow,
aimed straight for the heart
of everything that glows.
The cosmic trickster falls often,
but laughs
as her blood hits the concrete,
lighting up the flowers
who grow through the cracks,
painting the unsung map
on sidewalks of lifetimes
stretched across galaxies.
Ascent doesn’t know itself without descent.
The fear-grief of winter
kisses springtime’s hope-lush petals
and webs of light hold hands
with black holes.
It’s all here.
Still golden robes drape
the backs of the ancients
who call us in,
inspiring remembering
by forgetting what we think we know.
Once spinning in
mechanical precision,
we find the guts
to tilt out of orbit.
We are not the cardboard cut outs
of the “worst thing we ever did.”
Our silhouettes extend infinitely,
our flesh the expression
of the desire to
stand our ground in mid air
and finally jump.
Wings find their way open—
its what they do.
The Golden Thread 