A notion in your stomach,
a truth spoken by the lonely trees, undressed in winter.
The weight of physical being,
laden with existence,
burdened by flesh and bone,
The subduing forces that bind us,
that pull things towards the middle.
Silent acts that close the carnation’s petals
and draw you to the center of yourself.
The fetal contortions of dying things,
curling creases of burning paper,
a threatened serpent folding over itself.
The iron in your blood is lured
by an ancient magnetism,
an inner gravity,
a plum set to the navel of the universe.
The water of your being falling, lower, lower,
through the bottom of every well,
crawling deeper than death,
mighty rivers of the Underworld lead
to the primordial clay and mud of the earth,
to the roots of being, pulsating in the season of the soul.