Had it not been for the sister circle 
Who picked my obliterated Self
Off the cold ground 
When it was sinking below me
Like a hole,
In my darkest days,

When there was no ground for me to rest,
No place to anchor these feet,
They laid me on their hands and laps.

They turned my face to my child’s smile.
Then forced it into the sun.
Then held its heavy weight in the darkness.
As the river of little mothers 
Poured through every crevice.

Making room for the Truth. 
In its resplendent nature. 
Words of terror and sweetness both.

Then there was the rage. 
So they held me in a ring of fire. 
Until we were burnt 
And more alive. 
Twice born. 

Then came the ridiculous laughter. 
Howling as only a pack of wolves can 
When the full moon peaks out from behind the clouds.

And we simply go on repeating.
Taking turns
In the circle. 
Like the way we watch the moons unwavering, 
And always morphing radiance. 
Across the sky.


Livia ShapiroComment