Grant your soul permission to be here, to feel everything. Navigate with your heart as compass, intuition as guide, soul as travel partner.
In this world, there is my golden city and there is its womb being torn open and bursting... There is screaming. In it is a cold August.
These are the stories I do my best to write. What this poem means to me is not what it will mean to you, and that makes it powerful.
She is a wild heart. She runs free. High in the mountains. Softly treading the hillside. Imprinting the sand by the ocean.
The yellowed yarrow man sat to eat my sorrow with sips of supper. The two murre eggs in his head met the nest of driftwood in the place my eyes rest.