The little blue grounding blooms aren’t awake yet and the thistles are curled up tight, huddled brown in the soft morning.  It is a perfect grey morning–fresh moist and succulent.  I breathe deep into it like a ripe peach, my face pressed into the trees, letting nature drip down my chin into my heart.

Berries don’t hope, pray and manipulate this juice bursting in order to celebrate a rooted seed.  There isn’t that purpose-driven goal or focus on accomplishment that borders the useless inertia and righteous anger of my human side.  Oh to be a berry in late summer, just rich ripe and glistening.

Blossom white full and brown drying
Green red tight hard berry
Black full juice rich
Tumble ground melt
Bare bones seed dry
Spring tendril roots reach
Wirely fiesty thorny twist
Blossom white full face

And the lace waves to me from across the field–it’s exquisite holy holes a flag of perfection.  Here I am white lace and bursting berry human: angry, sweet, accomplished, empty, brilliant, bored, beautiful, busy being.