In This Beginning, In This Ending

I wander stripped of awe

handless, unable to shape

clay on the still spinning wheel,

having forgotten the melody 

even the impulse

to sing

 

in these times

when I feel

I am the broken

cup in a thirsty

life and no one

will stop to assist

 

I come to the last

teachings of the book

my ancestors 

somehow saved,

through exile after

exile, and the 

ancient teacher

who I rarely feel

speaks to me,

as if in a dream

breaks open

my shielded heart 

calling to me, to you:

make your own

song, your 

own poem

 

and  so I return

to the primordial

pregnant dark,

the thin place

edge of

belonging,

well of 

return,

listening for

the sounds

of beginning,

swimming

with my longing

towards