Are you clinging to light? The sun may disappoint you.
Wild irises poke from the soaked half-frozen earth. Lapis stars sparkle from their underground sky. Snow is over, then it snows inside your bones. The moon melts.
Gray stuff in cocoons is your true destination, neither wing nor worm. You pretended to know the Way from Winter to Spring, but all journeys end here, in the Bardo between seasons.
Heaven may disappoint you. Gaze downward. Don't be afraid to finger the roots like a harpist. Find absences and hollows where feathers nest, where fetal larvae curl, and mammals hunker for the pregnant night.
A white stag leads you from the ruined cathedral of certainty, into a wander-mist nine months lost in your om-land. Bright as silence, an infernal rabbit offers your egg to the pole star. Now you can be born.
You can dance at the center of chaos, in the waveless space between your thoughts, where it's never past or future. You can dwell where flames go when you snuff them out, darkness not the opposite, but womb of light.
Let others make decisions. Let others receive the consequences. You have a quieter, more foolish vocation than judgment or time.
You are the midwife of Spring, roaming like Magdalene from tear garden to tear garden. You lead the dazed and resurrected gardener out of his tomb, to plant his seeds in the loam of your footprints.
You coax hyacinths to die in their blossoms, whisper "awaken" to the sleeping fur, enter the dream of the caterpillar like a rainbow, encouraging clouds to breathe, push, crown, deliver raindrops.
Are you clinging to light? Heaven may disappoint you. Gaze downward.
Artist: Wendy Andrew