by Lisa Creech Bledsoe
When the day pours down in a silken glaze
the great bear walks up
and up each milk-white step of noon
leaving the restless woods
and her green cave of weeds
emptying her pockets of berries, roots, and grubs
climbing past the crows in the lemony air
above the hornbeam and chestnut oak
between cloud and mountain.
She slowly shakes aside the heavy rug of her fur
and muscle of her body
letting go
memories of grievous winters
boom and howl of the wind and weight
of each cub, before it was born
wending up the stairs of the night chorus
into the embrace of grandmother sky,
with bones as light and fierce as polished suns.
I tell you this so you won't be surprised
if the scent of pine sap drifts down
with milkweed, and memories of wild fat summers—
if you too
are stretched out in the field watching
for the rise of the great mother.
Remember your enchantment:
every day is a doorway
every moment is the world revealing itself.
Death is not waiting at the end,
but is here, vibrating with promises
of wider horizons and songs in different languages.
We are not waiting, but are
constant and becoming as we climb
listening for
learning what the river wants
and how the plants became healers—
letting go of our bodies
slowly, carrying nothing else into
the black and silver night
but the great shining we came from, and are.
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