What the Muses Leave Behind

Best swaddle our babies in veery song suspended on a breeze. Light meets day in its bud, gently uncoil each hour. They expect warm milk and kisses, we savor their sweet perfume. Find children as fresh earth, as body of amber clay. Layer on layer, by moments etched, we mold them home. Best swaddle our babies with apricot sunrises that open into May. The feast is not in the kettle when elbows dimple the cloth; only picnics of stories so satisfy like desert rain. They expect dragons swarming the castle, we savor paper cranes. Decades unfold a family like an aspen clone claims its slope - pushed open with birth and marriage, deepened in woe. Best swaddle our babies in butterflies laced in lucky saffron. Waking hours hold the key to Darwin explorations; we’ll set their brilliant minds free, feathering daydreams with angels. They expect to track a creek forever, we savor safe returns. Raising children pours like sand for a painting, every grain counts; they’re not ours, they belong to the w

Why bury your wildness? Honor that rakish salvation from soap and Jane Austin. It’s neither silk purse nor sow's ear. Why bother with some chase across Mongol steppes? Tunnel worm holes into a ninth dimension later. For now study your own notions of life and duty - how easily they fill with dust like puddles in August. When you neglect the beveled lips of crystal framing you with feral kin, your light bends obliquely from this nebulous sky. When you giggle madly as a pod of girls in skirts scarlet and billowing, veils swing apart. Holding patience like April holds spring, this good earth desires your seed and feathered song; desires timid fingers to probe iron laced fissures that map your fault line. Follow the dark thread home; nose to wind, chase sanguine urges. Crave the Golden Salmon roasting on hot coals. The best morsels wait for your hungry tongue. It sings to your wildness. Don’t bury her again.