i have journeyed back to the deep darkness
the blackness of the womb;
inky nothingness of space...
relegated to the Source:
She who loves Her sons
but gives Her daughters Her secrets;
She's implanted them in our
songs we hum as dish-washing soundtracks
knit into sweaters
slide into soup spoons as we stir
whenever we return,
She asks, "who has harmed you?
and where can I find one so foolish?"
because we give thanks when we are far from home
(She's adept at feeding us from great distances;
we are meant to travel far)
but rarely do we return unless broken.
hearing Her voice, we cease being strong--
if we haven't already--
and pour out our hearts to Her;
we linger, enjoying Mama's bosom,
delighting in Her love
until we are ready to travel again.
we always leave bearing gifts
grander than the ones we gave,
smiling sweetly...sometimes still weeping.
but encouraged, strengthened...
and well aware
that our gracious, wondrous Mother
suffers no fools.