There, in that pocket of light
called the flesh
sits the one they call
Who is you?
They tell you what you are
until you start showing them
that you go down so deep
that your leaves are feathering flowers,
always dropping heat–
always spitting flames,
always and everready
to take on anything and anyone
at their own game.

The treasure that shines outwardly
comes through from somewhere sacred,
drawn far up from your roots,
the silent toil that none can see,
the everyday hungering effort
to make another person happy.

To be rooted
does not mean to stay in one place.
It means to be forever seeking,
to traverse boundaries
in the name of ecstasy,
to burn to know, to learn,
to touch the other side
of the moon goddess’s face.

Here, the water flows
beneath the surface
of everything,
Tierra de Pachamama.


Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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