Have Patience

Have patience,
let the laundry dry.

If it rains while
the clothes are out, that meant
they needed a second washing.

If you thought
you had more eggs to give, but your head
hits the rugged bottom
of your empty basket:
it’s okay
to step back,
to return to that sweet cave of yours.

To take off
your socks after a long day,
to feed wood
to the dying fire,
to place warm cloth
over your forehead
and soft mint
over your eyes,
to submerge your whole
earth body
into a bath of elderflowers.

Rest your head
unto the petals of a sunflower,
let the golden satin
whisper you
the secret path of healing.

In the waters of warmth,
let your tender fingers trace
the dotted lines over your heart,
the stitches of salt and wounds.

Listen to the songs
of forgiveness
written on your skin
since birthless birth.

Reclaim your gentleness.

Look at a tree,
as it gives itself up
to the blowing earth.

Look at the daisy,
as it gives itself up
to the bee’s kiss.

Look at the soil,
as it gives itself up
to the rain.

Look at the sun as it gives itself up
to the moon’s dew.

Look at the seagulls as they
give themselves up
to the sea’s cries and hiccups.
And remember
that you are to do the same.

If only, my dear,
you would stop
your exhaust engine,
look after your
skin burns and scabs.
You forget you’re bleeding
while you try to be a
doctor to others.

So, dear,
stop.
Tend an ear
to your breathing body,
and feel every crevice
that seeks your love.
Understand what it has to tell you,
tend to it.