a new season
is beginning.
it is going to be different from the old ones.
and also the same, the selfsame yearning
i can never shed.
perhaps yearning is where
i come from: all the poets are
clamoring already, telling me
histories that feel familiar,
already buzz under my skin.
monsoon is coming, season of rain,
season of fecundity & drenched greens,
heartspace grown wild & ungovernable.
season of wandering the fields
with a lover. or wandering alone
so full of yearning you could burst
like a cloud, leave everything
soaking & sharp.
i am trying to be ready. the lover
i will wander with is inside
the mirror & inside me. inside still pools
between storms. inside a rainbox of skin.
even if i am quiet, even if alone.
i want to be fertile this season, waterlogged
with cleansing rain, growing new shoots
in the soil of me, in the soil of this
new place i have been calling home.
i want also to call
my little body home
i want also the sky & palm trees
to be kind. i want to trust
my own aliveness
my surviveness
my lovable mess.
overgrown & growing.
come home to me. call me with love.