Put Down Your Things
Here.
H e r e you can put them.
Here.
Put them down
on Me.
The voice of the Earth rises up
The voice of a kind wise crone
“For you,” she speaks to me as I lay in her arms “for you they carry the weight of lifetimes of pain and tears and sadness that is much much much too much for one human to hold.”
Here. Come. Place it before me.
The tiny limbs of my seta
Will let it rest
Dispersed amongst a sea of moss
we hold this weight with ease
Moving it in waves
Heaviness sinking through a thousand textures below
Rock
Pebbles
Soil
Sand
Water
Lava
here.
here.
H e r e.
Give all your things to me.
Suddenly
I am three days old again
A baby looking up at her mother
I don’t know which thoughts are mine
And which are hers
But I can feel generations of
Grieving behind
Burdened eyes
I imagine all those things she’s carrying
Running from one thing to the next
Not only in her house
But in her head too
Shes so tired
So neglected
And she thinks the answer is
her alone
to work harder.
Come.
The crone is calling.
Through the blanket of her skin.
