Pink light, from somewhere: the hint.
She wakes in a cracked bark cave,
someone else's land:
macaws hearkening some stranger taking foot
in the leaves, below some rumbling
as teaspoons of thought find roots, flower,
receive language -- take flight or foot or
some other shape:
A mountain standing, magma rising
from the core of its heart: Earth's blood.
In the palm of some unnamed hammock of a dream,
her feet touch down, land bare and tender.
And then: a cacophony of voices
hang like dappled light around her --
near and then nearer: from the space
between her toes, the palms of her hands:
the vibrations of a string having been drawn
with a loving bow along the center
of her Self: here.
The notes escape her lips, dance
above her head and send themselves into the wild:
in all directions, Here, they call,
And here. In the vines of tangled thought;
deep sand traps of fear: Here.
So she will know the way, her Self sends out
the song she will next sing,
to follow, to guide, to be wherever she arrives.
In every direction, every country or realm:
a warm cabin waits glowing
with a chair in which to sit,
a bed in which to sleep, air to breathe,
and a song already hers to sing.
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