gestures towards: the resonant thread

"Although we evidently have forgotten the mastership of
well‐being, our structuralist type of science has taken on a life on its own and
shown us, resistant though we are to accept it, that some of the ancient
scientists knew a long time ago what we are “discovering” only now. In the
spirit of the spiral‐shaped form of the evolutive holomovement, we have
gone forward in time, yet moved in a circle and thus reached a point where
we have already been before–only on a higher, potentially more evolved
level." (H. Fruehauf, 1993)

in the dream i encase small folios
scribbled by hands smaller than fingers
sewn to chakras and connected with strings
inside vestments smaller than human
and arrange these for hours
sewing, connecting, securing

each symbol blazes like a small
dense seed popcorning outward
extroverting into packed and imbricated symbols
which themselves unfurl

who composes the world?
i am not a tinker and
(who composes the word?) the songs
that come from the heart of me
do not come (who composes the war?)
from me or any human (who composes what we are?)
truly but uprising (as if in a large square pouring into millions)
from the very fabric of matter cohering (the center of which is the world's largest
hospital):
i wish for more beautiful and elegant elemental
gatherings

i may say i am looking for the thread
that connects everything, when meanwhile
i'm made from them, all i need to do
is pull on the edgerill of a flosswhirl
or braid it more fully

reweaving the fibriles of my center
restitching the plexus of my being

our mentation and proclamations perhaps velveteen pinocchios
to the way rose bramble arches into cedars

today's prayer: may we be as brave as our Egyptian kin
who are meta-multicellular, who come into the fierce
gas made of Pennsylvania poison
and rubber (and real) bullets,
detoxifying the militarized response at the edge
and re-enter the wombcell of unison
on pathways held by humans,
carried on motorbikes
to the largest hospital in the world
where we heal
and get up again, moving outward,
to meet and gift full presence
in a slow, blessing gyre
within the cauldron of creation

something is breaking open
hopefully more bud burst than tragedy
something weaving through,
composing us newly in the spring that comes
in Thanksgiving, with inches and inches of rain
drenching us hopeful
even as the sky closes opens closes
the sound of a military jet tearing open
the clouds who grieve