The Unwritten Story

Below my padded down jacket
My skin gathers itself
Like knotted sailors ropes
Protecting my vital organs,
Puckered against the cold

And in the water ways, beneath the rivers,
An old song is re-turning
Ringing golden with the setting sun
A re-membering is going on.
The threads of song, rising up from the waters,
running through our phloem, lacing themselves with our moon.
A gathering is upon us, you can sense its ancient call.

As the cultural skin has calloused,
from the endless, manual labouring task
Of keeping the other,
always at arm's length.

Blistering with the exertion,
Filled with blood and pus, having long since burst
Leaving scar tissue and pressure sores in their wake.

Marks, like letters, of the old story,
Reminding us of the searing isolation,
The only offspring of a lonewolf culture.
The slicing wounds,appearing on our collective underbellies,
like paper cuts,
from keeping ones self locked up alone,
Against the onslaught of inner impulses,
Bracing against fledgling lineages, aching to hatch and spill,
Ignited by the ecstatic tension,
woven from the fabric of your team’s unapologetic yes.

The softening in our capillaries
Washes clean the plaque in our arteries,
As systems surrender to the song
Held in the waterways beneath the river.

Your systems gush forth, instead
Into a mesh work
Of vibrant creation,
Making new marks in the evolutionary field,
And, bare, under foot,
Those mycelium networks breathing with intelligence
dream the clay, into the night sky humus.
Deep, dark and star studded.
Flooding our societies anew into
Unexpected shapes
That namelessly announce the accuracy
In their new found formations.

“Love” says my skin, as she loosens her grasp about the cold.
And the soft brush of my sisters’ fingers on my spine,
Unleashes life herself.
Upright, and walking
woven from the 10 billion moments of human grace
Unleashed from the folds of the often undetectable
archetypal act of sourcing village during,
The collapse of civilization as we knew it.