I walked out
Toe to heel, thwarted by the nights still cool
To see the place that’s in-between.
There are no hands
There are not lights.
Do you hear? There are no sides.
Bones are there, and love is too, this
Molten blanket, beauty, residue.
Also, a blanket felted
Of plastic bottles and ancient threads from
Their parent’s pants. Both are gold.
We have fear but swallow.
We sing and swing inside.
(What else would you have us do?)
The grass is made of hair. We are dancing on our heads. Our skirts are made of hair,
The hair on our heads is rain. I heard them say ‘we are inside and this is the
Golden offerings in dance and story about warriors, explorers, and seekers traveling into the heart and the unknown. Lovingly crafted by Ashley Hendra and the Polylingual Often Somatic Church of I Love You.