Friday, March 6, 2015

Fresh Pressed

Fresh Pressed

the light of hidden flowers
shines in me
like fresh pressed juice.

I see me, as a lover would.

I move in the kitchen
agitated, drinking coffee,

I see me move out to feed the birds
glad for the job their hunger gave me.

I love me this way
carrying a hidden light
I can see me when I'm still enough.

prompted by lines from Neruda
this poem grew deeper roots in process.
i'm drinking it in, simplified all the way from a marketplace in Peru, through a woman's moonlit heart, a most touching shared prayer to my own fresh pressed light body.

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