Maybe it’s the full moon
that has got me all wild eyed and crazy tonight
This lilting tune she’s whistling…
has me spouting poetry left and right
I can’t help but get out of bed
and dance
Words run through me
like salmon in the river,
swimming swiftly with the sea in their blood
This is the cultivation of articulation
I draw arrows fitted together of image and metaphor from my quiver,
pluck the string of my bow teasing its ability,
for I and she are but instruments
These offerings are gifted from the Goddess
I shoot from the heart, and I aim for the heart
These arrows leave my mouth and soar,
singing for love of the moon, the sun, the stars
and all that basks in the glow above and below.
If one day dictionaries and thesauruses split their seams
and fly off the shelves bursting with thousands of newborn expressions
in ecstatic and overflowing praise for the Divine
I will be there to pick up the pieces of color and shape
and sound and sensation and I will weave
illustrious and vibrant tapestries of context for the seen and the unseen,
and especially for this feeling inside that makes me swoon to be alive.
Often I have wished that we had more language
to speak adequately to the glory of this existence
I used to get quite sad about it
But now I realize, the whole point in this seeming lack
of expanse in prose to capture this bliss is so
we can have so much fun falling over ourselves trying
