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Rinse. Don’t Repeat.

Rinse. Don’t Repeat.

Rinse. Don’t Repeat.

 

The prelude to this powerful alignment
in the heavens, full moon eclipse in 
watery Scorpio, has been a week 
of deluging rains falling on the 
east coast of what is known 
as US — however at odds 
the unity of these states 
of habitation may be.
 
Downpours whose timpani
registered in the biblical
scale of percussion,
proportion,
at times.
 
Days of pouring.
 
Brief interludes of
swiftly moving clouds
gathering — sundering — 
like so many of us, whether 
in form or spirit.
 
It feels so very right
even as it seems
so intense, so
strange, so
portentous.
 
Those who seem attuned to
the frequency of the torrents
hold their knowing behind
sparkling eyes. Others
seem distressed by 
such long-lived
gushing.
 
A streaming
taking place in the
deepest layers 
of our soil.
 
Shedding tears
we forgot how to cry, 
grief held so long it calcified 
 
— stalactites reaching
for stalagmites in a 
long left grotto.
 
Our roots drinking
as never before, 
their thirst slaked
as readily as their
berths are 
unsettled.
 
Disturbed.
 
Loosed.
 
Sticks and stones break
our bones and names
can and do hurt us.
But they cannot 
reach us, not
here.
 
As so much wisdom
has advised of
these days: 
do not 
look 
back
 
For there is
nowhere
we are
able
to be
 
now.
 
It is being
cleared.
 
Washed away, 
this old settled
ground on which 
we’ve stood
so firm.
 
Believing
we did
stand
firm.
 
Earth knows 
otherwise.
 
Teaching her
moving ways on
winds, quakes, funnels, 
slides — acts of god,
not a chalkboard
in sight.
 
We've resisted 
the lessons again and 
again in our modern mood,
manner, pouring our cement,
girding place permanent,
as owned, as mine.
 
Not yours.
 
Not ours.
 
An entrenchment
slipping away
like so 
much
mud.
 
Emerson is here:
“People wish to be
settled; only as far as
they are unsettled is
there any hope
for them.”
 
Yes. Not an
easy ask in a 
poured world
that disdains
pouring.
 
Still, all we see
as the living world,
even as we see solid
rock, stock-still ranges,
is shot through with
movement, energy.
 
Just ask the
flowering.
 
The teeming
greening that
no amount
of concrete
can keep
down.
 
There is no
inanimate bone
in the earth
body.
 
Nor any
body moving
upon and
within
her.
 
As below so 
above, celestial
bodies’ orbits blocking
then beaming the fires 
in the belly of our 
milky way.
 
Holding,
bearing
so much
 
life.
 
Our nomadic
souls know
this.
 
Know
how to 
let go.
 
To let
flow.
 
It’s time
we followed
their lead
 
and no
other.
 
Look:
the path of 
least resistance
rises to meet us.
 
Shimmering.
 
All we 
have to do 
is step 
up.

 

∞/∞

Eve Moore ©2023

© Photo: Eve Moore


Eve Moore: Once a professional writer of advertising, I saw the light & it has shown me words of a different nature. And so I take them down & offer them up. And all is well. 

For more of Eve Moore's amazing and heart centered poetry and writings, click here! 
http://www.crystalwind.ca/eve-moore

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.”
—Jimi Hendrix

This poem/prose was submitted exclusively to CrystalWind.ca by Eve Moore.

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