We split like the slice of an apple
skinned in shock,
stunned open
teetering on the Birdseye maple
cutting board.
Drop the metal shards, words.
Drop the armor of fear, fists.
Drop Everything. Even your dreams,
your hopes,
the unborn,
the thick cloak
keeping the frost from the last stems of basil.
Let it burn cold at dawn
and wilt back
to the tender place it began,
among bones.
Breathe trees.
Lean towards the light, where love is
not where it isn't.
Clear cut the cord
that ties you to anyone
or anything
frightened to meet the Magnificent,
unwilling to claim your devotion,
your sacred heart
among tangled weeds.
This will be the last time
we breathe life into our failures.
The path is an elegant branch,
it curves,
spiraling deep into the center
into the place you never left
into the place you are
always
born.