By Anne Powell
to the place in you
where fire and silence dwell —
the place of power.
to that pool in you
of weedless water —
the place of knowing.
the moss bright path
to your Grandmother’s house —
the place of song.
to the last strawberry —
the freshness of God.
From Firesong (Aotearoa New Zealand:
Steele Roberts Ltd.), copyright 1999.
All rights reserved.
Posted with kind permission of the poet.
Take the water, flowing up a tap from the earth – old aquifer, luscious remnant…
It is a simple garment, this slipped-on world. We wake into it daily—open eyes, braid…
Today, the sun-glazed bag of lemons adorning the white counter became in my imagination,…
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