It’s always a holy pilgrimage
when I visit a river with you,
returning to our long lost Mother
who might bless us again,
nurturing the ways our feelings mix.
It’s as if we never left.
Weren’t we just here yesterday,
playing in her bullrush arms,
mingling with stones, mud and platted wet leaf carpets in pure joy?
I come here to feel my body,
to know it has its own way in the world I’m still learning from.
It’s a mountain stream made into flesh for an afternoon,
a rivers eddy that can dart across rocks and plod through dirt
and all of the strange, sharp angled worlds we make.
My body needs to come here to feel whole again,
to be remembered by one of its many Mothers.
When I hold your hand I feel your bones
and her sensuous ancient music
moving through us.
I remember who we really are
alone and together,
this river of being.
