Ancient with Waiting. (Original writing)
We are each part of Spirit: the First Light and stars, gases, flame, the rocks and ooze that formed, in one unbroken chain of remembering, our physical selves. I once gave a strand of my hair to a psychic to help her "see" my history. She described a dinosaur with thick spectacles reading from an old book. I am reading the story of language that I may use its root to heal our pained distance from Spirit. I am ancient with waiting for reunion. My poems are not easy; reading them, your eyes may weary. Yet they bear the numinous presence that stood beside me when I was three, my mother's hands gripping my throat. They bear angels who "take their sacrament... from the bold sigh of a man left in a corner to die but who is still alive." "Trees of prolonged healing... that call us to their arms.".