Luck in what falls from the toss

But as we all know

As above, so below.

 

Tracing an uneven trail of crumbs

Up into the gorge.

Particles so dense in weight,

Undisturbed by wind and rushing streams.

Creeping through a narrow crack from above,

A magnet trail anchored to the tight core.

Moved only by self-possessed desire

And the precision that can only be learned

From a history of luck and fortune.

When it moves, the water seems to be flowing

In reverse.

Back into the shadow of the gorge above.

 

Is this stubbornness, or a responsible distribution

Of power? Of some ancient, alchemical truth?

Of knowing?

 

The waterfall and mossy rock frame

Magnetic path turns the earth for itself

In a diorama sitting in my hand 

Tinkering away at tiny worlds 

With calloused, giving hands.

 

A secret keeping the warmth from leaving my chest

And propelling my movement

With inner, unshakable knowing

The security of my own wanting

Trusting in what is not yet known

 

Spitting out pomegranate seeds in the late

Afternoon sun

Lavish and wet

Juice dripping from my lips and chin

Red with cool heat

Fingers lacing through my hair

Falling onto my back

 

Time passing, day becomes night

The garnet juice dries

My vision fades into dream

Where fog lifts as I shake off the fatigue

Swim through the shadows of tall grass

To reach the clearing where a cool breeze

Blows softly over my curves

 

Resting in moonlight, skin purring like velvet

Comfort in riddles and unknown 

Delightfully and graciously

Plucking the brightest stars for my consuming.