My holiness is ancient.
Trying to grasp its invisible nature,
I weep
and strive to imagine its spiral streams.
Swirling into the air, it’s leaving
the amber earth below my feet.
How ancient? How holy?
Rumpled in its chambers,
my vigour shows its bones.
Three times it trembles
before its skin is shed,
and seeds secretly betray
the future.
©2024, soulmary
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