At the end,

there is always a beginning.

as i sit, here
at the end of the world
in a place familiar and no longer mine,
i wonder
i ponder
the rhythms, the patterns that have brought me
thus far

i've been shedding skins
again
and this new me is also strange, and
somehow familiar

the moon's belly is full and hangs low in the sky
pregnant yet, with so much possibility
who am i?
alone, this night,
alone
as we all are, really

intentions with friends this morning, at sunrise
i spoke of roots intertwined
of deep connection,
of support and nourishment

sometimes
i can lose myself, so easily
in the day to day, ordinariness of things
or in the constant flux and flow and changing,
in the sorrow, the stuck places
or outside of myself, forgetting
that source is a wellspring
that overflows in my soul
and that my roots come with me, wherever i go
that my wings are not fragile things
and have known a heavier load,
than this

and this, is what?
is bliss
is hard
is changing
is soft
and unfolding
is unknown and scary,
is life giving death giving life.