I can’t quite remember the story,
just its broken hinges beginning.
Preying over my prayer,
Sweet light sitting in quiet pools,
butterfly wing dust on your cheek.
The breeze crouching in the corner
just waiting to surprise.
The red and white cliffs rise above
the Virgin. She twists her way
Across the green valley,
spitting men out of her
mouth.
There are whispers on the angel
stair. The light one
on my left,
while the shadow clings to my right.
She is the watery lover, wishing
herself into being, drawing her
own lines from the desert floor.
And while the doe cannot protect herself,
as dark things creep out of their caves.
She will always love,
and in her loving she will continue to
give birth to sun dappled hope, even as
her bones turn to jewels in the sand.
