Inspiration is rarelydivinedamong the birches or dogwoodsor gods It crawls into the circulatory systemof creationlike bishop’s weed You wakesplayedgasping then weepand pray groping not forimagination’sshallow bloodied rootsbut for theanchoring embraceof memory
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Entries by Christine
Sturdy wingless enviable womenrecite their mother’s recipesand weave in and out of timewithout coy over the shoulder glances Their private worry claws at the earthnot the skies Still The days tick by unconcerned
The bones of our origin float weightless while we sleep until we dare dream
Virtue with its willowy reachpulls as counterweightagainst the stubborn willfulness of want Equal in massto the burdenof imagined sin its heights are far-heraldedsolely for being easier to see
Trees and stones will teach you that which you can never learn from masters. —Saint Bernard
A brittle stump cleaved from itsscribbled rootstopples over with some reliefonto its cushioned mossy side No longer recordingthe earth’s whispered memoirit rolls backward up a hillinto a souland an invisible childis unknowingly conceivedoutside of the mother’s body As a curiosityit is both gospeland inventionan introduction and epilogue