Writings

Sanctuary

This is a place without memory.
A place where the changing tides wash our footprints away,
that we may be free.

That we not mistake what remains of our past paths
or the contours of our bodies against wet sand,
with our deepest selves.

but live in the secret, shifting, unspoken place of our hidden growth.

Deep roots rove downward, pushed by the whirling sands and wild seas.
It is thus that we survive our storms.

Carya tormentosa

Before me stands a beauteous child,
gnarled fingers,
soul wild.

I speak her name and mine in turn,
that our memories shared may burn,
bright, converse.

The crunch of snow and howl of wind,
my late night footsteps, her outstretched limbs.

We are silent witnesses to one another’s rootedness,
standing strong, reaching high,
through crashing storms and starry skies.

 

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