The Nectar is Here

The hammer rests by the forge today.

The shoulders drop an inch, then two.

It is the sound of the pottering, the tea, the quiet home that says:

the nectar is already here.

A seed is not a worker.

It does not strain to be a flower -

it simply unfolds because the soil is warm.

I give the ache to the flame -

the tightness in the jaw,

the lie of the lone wolf,

the old story of the arid ground

I leave it for Brigid to turn into ash.

And in the space that remains…

there is Lakshmi, the golden flow.

There is the ‘No’ that protects the ‘Yes’,

and the holy time of chanting in the soft light.

I am not alone. The fire is lit,

and the honey is already sweet upon the tongue.

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