we are people composting slowly,
decade after decade we watch
the young birth themselves
into this world we have given them.
At the holy ground, there is lush
green brush, there is warmth
of sun, the cool of water, rock
mountain temple before sky.
At the holy ground, my pleasures
are gathered and woven together
like chain link, but softer,
like silk. The most curious
birds with tufts on their heads,
peck at memories, rise together
like levitation in the quiet air,
as if they hadn’t always been there.
At the holy ground, it was like
we had barely wanted any atonement
or penance at any time in our lives,
but suddenly we hoped
for a blessing to appear out of nowhere,
like we needed it in order to go on
into the loneliness we knew
would soon be floodlit,
its every movement echoing
like a tree falling. Here,
the petals of flowers wait for me
to lie down and kiss the earth,
to lap at their spilled nectar.
We eat dandelions, imagine
ourselves as strong, as new
as the words sung to us
by the voices we love,
as if they were angels
or mermaids or goddesses.
I should just call them goddesses.