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All The Green-Cap Mothers
I step through a willow gate
into May’s orchard
it’s where we chose
to meet this month,
this community place
huddled beneath sky
and spring blossoms
and so I enter an old yurt
looking at a filthy floor
more dirt than wood
slowly watching feet
gather through grime
it felt like a metaphor
so much bigger than myself
as I sat down in a camping chair,
poured myself hot tea from a flask
and thought about how it never changes,
my desire to see these women thrive
how it nourishes the part of me
that craves growth so badly,
to weave amongst arms
and it’s all I can think about,
as I imagine vines curling round canvas
and think of us all wombed in the faith
we find so often in each other.
I lean back into the cushion
thinking of life as a jungle
thinking of people as tendrils
clinging from one moment
to the next
earthing myself in
its strange, leafy magic
heart so thick, I could
no longer see the street
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