Friday, March 6, 2015
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.