You May Call Me Grandmother

I am the water who waters no one.

She is no longer “in love,” for what point is there if the other faces away towards other magic?

Vows of chastity until the one who is worthy builds the fire, spreads the blanket, and destroys the universe for me.

Rain and pollen mix to make the deck slimy and slick. Around 5 a.m. I sweep the sloppy mélange because why not. Mama Blue Jay watches nervously from her nest as I watch nervously for Papa Blue Jay who often drops down out of the pine to ward off those who get too close.

In this new phase, I can see that others want me to be sadder, angrier and afraid. It is no small thing to be at peace when those around you need something else. The earth tilts towards this and things grow. Can you not see it?

No longer do I keep pace, in fact, there is no otherwise. Any benediction I extend now begins with: slow down. See. Hear. Collect today's manna and that is all.

Orisons become older, more ancient, rising from the phallic flowering of the Baobab at dusk, extending beyond its crown unto the unknowable sea of starlight.

To see the Baobab is to suddenly have knowledge with understanding, and in standing next to one, you know you have been located.

We've been called back to this homeland because it is here that time began. The Mara whispers names we have forgotten, and it still births generations of inherited aliveness.

The Baobab says, “you may call me Grandmother.”

And upon seeing Her, I say, “I love you.”