I believe in Something and More.
Some call it the Divine or Magic.
Others call it the Great Unknown—
the mysteries, future discoveries
in the cosmos or a single flower.
But I call it Beauty and Wonder.
I stood at the foam-lace trim of
Mother Earth’s blue gown as her hips
Gently swayed back and forth.
I stood with my toes planted in the
Wet sand as the seagull overhead scoffed
In a language I cannot comprehend.
I stood on the shore as the breeze
Flirtatiously ran his salty fingers through
My hair, tying it into sailor’s knots.
I stood watching an orange starfish as
He was carried along with the tide and the
Waves tickled the souls of my feet.
I stood there offering heavy questions
To the goddess of the sea and she softly
Replied, “Just be, child. Just be.”
It is so much more than you and me.
It is primal urges and rose petals.
Biological functions and a secret dance.
Evolutionary history and love songs.
It is haunting voices and sanctuary.
Memories and fresh discoveries.
Comfort and anxiety.
It is new life and old loves.
Passion and gentleness.
Security and vulnerability.
It is angels and demons.
Fulfillment and jealousy.
Insecurities and release.
It is magic and witchcraft.
Desire and despair,
Love and lust.
It is all here, between our sheets.
I can’t remember the last time I twirled,
hair flying and arms flaying as I went round
and round until the world began to blur.
Somehow I grew up,
so I sit in the grass
fearing it might stain
my over-worried outfit. I listen to the music
but the man with the scarfs seems to feel it in an
unfiltered way that I haven’t since childhood.
Untamed white hair
and tie-dye tunic
billowing as he whirls.
His haphazard dancing calls to a few children
so he pulls out scarf after scarf like a circus clown,
handing them out to his motley crew who are
jumping and spinning
in a rainbow haze
to the sound of the banjo.
This unbridled spectacle of play is childish
and messy. It’s wildly undignified, which makes
the grass dancers all the more alive and free.
I’ve wanted a secret box for as far back
as I can remember.
One of those book-cloaked boxes that can
hide in plain sight.
An unsuspecting little book you would never
think to crack.
A place to whisper and then lock away what
But I never found my little secret box, so
I became one.
In a world of black and white, I learned that
boring was safe.
And so I carefully locked my tender and wild