Power flows through me in ways subtle and gross.
The whisper of spirit gently surges as I walk by trees,
Notice bumble bees buzzing and swaying on their homeward approach
To dark, damp holes amongst tree roots;
I see brambles turn and twist themselves into spiky knots
As if to tie in for eternity, or, at least, until Autumn’s nimble fingers begin to unpick them.
I watch the tiny waves crosshatch on the canal’s surface
And wonder what kind of musical sound they’d make.
I approach the beautiful Birch with my swollen heart
And see the paper white adorned by crispy orange and green.
I feel warmth as I stand with a friend, arms enveloping, hearts beating together.
This power is gentle, loving, curious, connected and feels so, so freeing.
Then, suddenly, the other power rears its head and demands some dramatic attention.
It needs me to be more than or less than
So it can exist and hide the hurt that’s bubbling beneath
And MUST NOT BE FELT or… or… or what?
And yet these things, when felt, dissipate.
But the anticipation of feeling makes me want to flee myself.
I want to come home, like the bumble bee, heavy with nectar,
Hips swaying with the weight of it;
Home to the community where I feel safe;
Home to hive where we work together to live.
I’m tired of this world where money is a token of power
And the getting of it extracts from the Great Mother,
Who is being destroyed by this foolishness.