The Tug I remember you, rooted into the pasture, set against autumn’s breath as I walked by: your capillary arms reaching into life, bare and delicate, like morning and moss, and the soft consideration that beauty remains, even after all adornment has decayed. Yesterday, cawing winds sprinkled you with a murder of crows. Today, you beckon chirping cardinals from across the fence. The brevity of these black and red-feathered frocks hint at all those little moments that open and close before us, like mouths of newborns asking to be nursed. Now, I want to shield you from winter, offer you milk from a warm breast, forgetting that this pause, is also necessary. I seem to forget many things these days, and wonder if I might also stand, unadorned, before cold and rain, my green gone, extended into life’s opacity with branches open—trusting I am inhabiting fields where I’m meant to be, syncopating with earth, releasing leaves into the mist, when cold winds come tugging. (This...
Women's Spiritual Poetry