“The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne." –Chaucer
From whence we come, we know little,
and forget even that.
We are just fish moving through water,
which closes in behind and marks our passage
…barely at all.
But at our beginning, God whispered into us,
those foggy, quiet words:
“Go, now, to the limits of your desire,
Let everything happen to you, every joy,
Every terror. No feeling is final.
Press on.
But remember Me,
Who spoke you out of the darkness.
And do not despair.
Put your ear to the air.
Tune your senses to the long rhythms…
The sun is daily higher,
It knocks harder on grave’s door:
Beneath in the icy ground,
Life warms from near death
Shudders and swells and pushes against
The things that would keep it cold:
Listen….
Tune your senses to the long rhythms,
Close your eyes and see.
Billions of trillions of millions of tiny,
urgent things stir, move,
Grow from nothing to everything.
The shoving and shifting and yearning
Makes a soundless roar we feel through our feet.
The Earth…. She stretches and yawns.
Found this morning on Writer’s Almanac. Men– if we’re completely honest–are envious of women, as a group, in some rather superficial ways, but particularly in the birthing abilities she talks about–that we will never have. It is a power that is beyond us. We know it. And you know we know it. And we know you know we know it.
Things weren’t very specific
when I was in labor,
yet everything was
there, suddenly: all that
my body had known,
even things I’d only been
seeking sublime surrender
“The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne." --Chaucer
I dream so I write ..
In happiness my words I lack, in grief they overflow.
Audrey Dawn
Creative Nonfiction & Poetry
by Kelly L
THE DRIVELLINGS OF TWATTERSLEY FROMAGE
HemmingPlay 
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