ancestral tasks

Unstitched from the body of time. Unmoored into feral chasm. Sacred terrains of knowing have begun to pollinate the baffled womb whose authorship foments new fugues for ancestral tasks. It asks: Who will dance upon your bones in the high, high grass? How will you inherit the smattering opal breath of infancy in the silt of forests yet to be born? In the crack of a honeyed dawn, what egrets will sojourn past the mirrored plains of waters that once bore you? We are the forcestors, weaving a shift in the boundless web of gossamer jewels whose tumbling molts into the shimmer between what was…and becoming. Singing the sunlight into our being like a note in a bottle in the sea that would say: We were here. In the vast occupation of an ever-renewing now - do not listen to the thieves of hope. Hope is a word derived from “delta”where estuaries in their tendrils clasp towards the sea in completion and incompletion. Be forever fretted into a tapestry of the great void. Be ever humbled and curious as a tool for its auspicious lines of song. Rippling into the wild folds of arms lifted. Glinting. Luminous. Let your doubts wilt. Feed into the sounds of busted clocks, in their bursting, feel that whole languid notion writhing in the stuttering opus. Billowing in the tumult. Where echoed hours connect gently in sinews. Find drops in the humming. Draws flint in its sparking. Reach. Reach. Weave. Listen. The blanket of an old night is lifting and new volumes of a thundering grace has fingerprints for labyrinths that lead us towards etudes of gratitudes from the future ones. It is a bridge you see, seeking the nails in your pockets for its rising. Seeking the deliciousness of your own tomb as a space for the forcestors to dance in wild abandon and the sacred yes of becoming.