By Jennifer Brookins

wind rustles through high grass, bends even lower this dark night of my soul, other times turns ordinary stones into Egyptian obelisks…still I listen for you. Oh Weaver, burn a path to my door lest I store my dreams in an empty robin’s nest. Sunshine freckles my withered moor, wild aster and pansies grow in abundance; leaves soft and feminine but spines of steel. They sway to rhythms of falling snow. I watch them in their nakedness. I wear winter’s coat but yearn for spring; slow thaw of winter snow; bougainvilleas eagerly await spring no matter how veiled her balancing act. Oh Weaver Ji you gift your hardest battles to your strongest warriors. A lion waits in my gathering place that need be tamed. it is to that divine drop of you I sing. I kiss your belly full of divine secrets waiting to be cracked open.

© 2020 Jennifer Brookins

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