I guess the one thing is I been needing this, a place to just Nurture poetry again the way this is Her House, this body, this ~ G ra ce~  to let the letters make consonants make vowels into verbs acting out playing with dancing about making sounds.  The W o r d s~

this, which doesn’t always lead me, no!  Simply just is, Home.  And who doesn’t need a place just for themself? I drove little Lala and took the back roads all the way from his house to small lil Ptown where she’s from.  It was the first time I did it without him and was glad those backroads came easy for me as silk would feel if the land and the tire flow could flow through the blood in my body, in my lungs, down through my legs and arms.

I made my way and on the way back thought as I often do of the first time he came to me in the dreamspace. It was end of a long week and the easily confused angst feeling of ambivalence that could have been read as burn out if I’d not listened to me, which is always a mistake.  The ambivalence tension that is soul call and which as a younger woman always felt like resistance and could make me act a rebel, too.

It was that feeling, the something out there in the ether in the soul space giving call I felt so strong I actually turned one day to call back out to it, on to Friendship road the back way that would’ve taken me up behind family land if my great grandparents were still alive and still had their farm.  And I parked in a driveway there at dusk, it was a high tide either just before or after peak summer because of the thick stuckness of shadow at twilight that time of year all about the land.  And the elder pines on either side of that gravel drive were so thick with underbrush and the corn on either side so high you immediately couldn’t even really see my truck.

So I cut the motor with sunroof open and thought a minute about how I’d never ever noticed the abandoned old house at the end of the drive.  L is ten n nn n n I could practically hear it say…I listened deep in my heart because I knew what ever music it was attuning to wasn’t playing out of me but that for sure it was partly my song.  And I listened and beseeched the land, and that’s the day it started pulling…for many weeks a pull so strong.

I would drive at twilight and listen.  To the land here, this side of 50 between 1 and 113 and 13 the only part of the county I had never sung out to and until now hadn’t even entertained.  And at night I would dream the communities of small town generations that kept their circles closed not knowing it was that deep of a song.  Or that it was him.  It was his song I was dreaming and hearing but same for him not only his and not only mine, but of us, and also being co-wrote as ours.

And so there in this Place all mine I got that out now and already I can be quiet with my thoughts, and feel my way back to me.   The wind is blowing hard but only in the tallest parts of sentinel trees.  From where I sit I am rooted deep into and through me.  I make poetry offerings to the Ancestor tree.  A fox swishes her bushy tail just after sunrise when the woods are aglow with rose-orange. She disappears into an easy hiding spot in a bush across the street.  I ask, is that you?  And she emerges from the brush and trots towards me across the street.  I know she doesn’t see me tucked away as I am inside the house.  She comes halfway down the driveway then across the yard to my tree, then out of range from my sight.

I throw my arms open in all thanks though because we’re singing the same song.  I believe in the womb of creation and tend it in soft circles all day long.