Dear Collective Soul,
How magnificent you are. Don't you see?
The magnitude of your weathered heart, and your nimble determination to arc toward your own finest Self, even if over a distance so broad it could stretch across the sky? The silent work of you, the steady breath of you, the invisible eldership of you.
How brave you are to carry the hands, and toes, and every single eyelash and the soft skin behind the knees.
How bewildering it must to be be questioned and silenced and called upon, and pushed away, and listened to and then betrayed over and over.
Where do you get your patience? Where did you learn to show up, breathing soft, with such grace and quilted forgiveness?
You are a true beauty. Don't you see?
You are the net woven only of galaxies and lessons learned. You are the basket woven only of the mother's hands and the woman's hunger for herself.
You are a true majesty. Don't you see?
You are the pulse that invites us home to the meal only we can cook for ourselves and each other.
You are the pulse that ignites the flame only kindled by the fear and flamboyance of the human-mess.
You are the basin of complexity and simple woes. Don't you see?
You are the one who catches the fallen leaves in their own dance down, and the tears as they get heavy and warm.
You are the tender being, the unknowable one, the collection of color, and the arrangement of miracles just so, that they sparkle when smiled upon.
Love is real, I suppose, because it is indestructible. You are indestructible, I suppose, because you are Love.
Moon beans and three tulips with one missing pedal,
Morgan