And we shall dance together.
No longer tethered to bog made of decayed trees,
of histories past, of battles fought and won.
It was not much fun.
And we shall dance together.
Each holding equal measure.
Not man made,
Not marked upon a ruler stick.
She who is me.
The cradle of life.
The holder.
She who is me,
The soft mellowed voice.
The sustainer.
And we shall dance together.
The womb, the sewer.
The crippled soldier.
The broken hearted father and mother.
When history books are dust.
When nothing remains of ill begotten gains.
Of the fall.
The broken form.
Of the saddest story of them all.
We shall dance together.
And I who is she, who is me
secured the healing blanket
to warm, to mellow my heart,
dissolve valleys made of tears,
of shame, of guilt,
of the past tense not making any sense.
This present tense of she is me.
Of fragments pulled together.
Of swirling and swirling.
Of ecstasy regained.
Of distance forgotten.
Of the separation mark erased.
In that, we shall dance together.
All praise.
All praise.
To she who is me.
The great mother.
The holder.
Cradle of our wounded brother.
Softly softly.
We shall dance together
October © 2012