I clear a space for praise, placing three stones, loosened from well worn shoes,
beside essence of sage, still green slivers of thyme, and lavender – the scent
wanders towards my drying skin and spine, filling in the cracks. I place

Without breasts
a woman’s heart
rounds and softens her body,
bears her milk.

Between the dark cocoon
and the last flight
inside the threading of light
into motion and wing

in the middle of vast hunger and feasts
a single azure bowl
brimming with emptiness

Lately I’ve been turning
into fire,
those two almond shaped coals
red eyed and wanting,
accumulating heat from all
those years
at the cranky hearth,