My house with its myriad altars, the ancestors,
and the hearth fire burning, the darkness
no longer as impenetrable a barrier for crossing over. The
turning about, the moon, outside, a sliver
of cool white fire, an edge
through which midnight imperceptibly enters. The gate
of the new moon, yesterday,
a slowly waning crescent, now, you are nowhere. Yet,
You are likened to the seed who quietly waits for water
. . . warmth, and nourishment to penetrate.
You who are falling back through the dream, undefended
in the phase of depth and wandering. Unhurried,
in the phase of light and becoming-as when,
the world is slowly recognized as round. Becoming rounder, like the round
of the old and new moon, dissolving and reforming.
. . . her excess disappearing. Her mind made of softened boundaries, likened
to a frog or a butterfly,
the seed, the serpent, and the new moon. Who experience
a metamorphosis, and
by shedding their old and worn-out skin, emerge bright
. . . in the dropping down, in the shattering into the dark and hidden places.