Gina Puorro - What will you feed them?

 

Nothing matters, everything matters.
I was born on the outer edges of Autumn
and I feel at home in the liminal space
between what is living and thriving and blooming
and what is dying and sinking back down into fertile ground.
Everything comes undone.
Nothing is left intact.

I'm interested in the gravity that comes
with feeling the impermanence of things.
Of moments
and you and me
and the stories that weave themselves
into the most beautiful tapestries
until one loose thread unravels the whole thing.
Maybe we can weave in a little more honesty to tuck ourselves into.
I have loved and lost and have been left more whole
with the deep caverns that grief has carved into my heart.

There's been so much talk about unprecedented times
but I think they are illuminating
and I suspect we've been here before.
We've inherited the mess and the gifts left behind for us
and we will be leaving some of our own.
I see your righteousness and I’ll raise you
some curiosity and bewilderment.
Any claims to power lose their footing
in the presence of awe.
Maybe the next time
and the next
we can bring a little more courage and kindness to our listening
turn down the concepts and theories
and dial up the context and nuance.

I pray that beauty and art
music and dance
poetry and bare feet on the Earth
will bring us all down to our knees
in reverence to the holiness of wonderment
and help us remember who we are.
Maybe we can all learn to co-regulate with each other
across time and space
with our human and non-human kin
in this vast mycelial network that tethers us to one another.
I want to be a student of the subtle.
Of the soft whispers and sweet hymns
that ride the ocean breeze and the hawk's wing.
A slight pivot towards quietude and the small things.
There are tender spaces
between emptiness and longing
where we just might hear the songs that pass
from ancestral throats to receptive ears.

You contain multitudes - contradictions and stardust and sacred instruction.
Leave your unanswered questions
on the kitchen counter
let them ripen a bit
until their quiet mysteries penetrate you
like bite marks in peach flesh
like a soft kiss at that one spot on your neck.

There's a whole love language
in keeping your palms open while you pray
for when the honey pours down over you.
Sticky, but consistent in it's sustenance.

The spirits eat beauty and sweetness.
What will you feed them?

 

 

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