The itsy-bitsy spider is in my belly — climbing the twisted vines that have knotted ‘round my entrails — this morning was a grave waking, a rain dance before dawn in the bed, crossing the i’s and dotting the t’s, some disfigured attempt at feeling whole again — because my mind wants me to go places — but some whisper wants me to wait and listen — ill-fated circles and lines that do not meet — and I think, is it such a bad thing to stay at home today? A day like all days — a day in the extended holiday of these past years — a Holy Day, each day — and why not? — but am I wasting away? — the Mother would say “stay” — stay as long as you can bear the discomfort of the nothingness — the discomfort of your meaningless — the fact that you’ll be gone tomorrow even though each little decision you face feigns the weight of mountains — do not slip away in the face of this — the paradox is the canvas upon which you must paint — do not be discouraged, do not make mountains where there are none, but neither must you escape this matter, this incarnation — you must be in your flesh, in your  body, in the dull bones and aching muscles that hold the pain of wars fought and loves lost and golden ages that crumbled, fadó fadó— before the smell of soil became a foreign thing — before the children forgot to give thanks for their food — before their parents forgot how to pray for rain and pull roots from the earth with nimble fingers — before the tree falling in the forest became a question of hearing, not feeling, not feeling as one would if a hair was plucked from their own head — a lament, the song line from now ‘til then — so grieve, but be here, not in thought or in ink but in carne, head given to the ancient ones who know better, heart given to the ones to come.