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Circling a grassy field is a nest of intention.
Scaffold your thoughts to the sky,
weaving your visions in and out of the daylight;
drawing them taut with the filament of
full moons.
We cannot alter organic rhythms
with technologies of insistence.
Gestation is not a sacrament;
Nor a koan, totem-mantra of the intellectual elite.
It is sacred, preverbal, like the veins of a leaf -
Accessible to more children than popes.
The darktime calls us all by names
we remember
in her silence.
The open-handed
conjure the Gift
of embriosity:
a stirring, a movement -
the weak, erratic thumps
of a miracle
fumbling in the dark
to the edge
of this universe.
by Constance Mears
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