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Poem

Some mornings I slow down.
If you had seen me this morning,
you might reasonably conclude
I could not possibly further reduce my productive pace,
a social disgrace,
slogging through my domestic place.

Days, or at least my light within each day,
grow shorter,
while everything remains to be done
to care for future generations
of children
and puppies
and cubs
and kittens
and kids
and calves.

Yet dawn silently screeches toward timelessness
as I realize
I was produced
in a moment of ecstasy,
but also nine-months prepared to thrive
on Earth,
while my unique,
yet resonantly symbiotic, DNA
is born of prehistoric generations,
back when time and light's productive moments
were measured in full and empty,
ecstatic and aptic,
rising toward another regenerative morning,
and setting toward yet another sacred decomposing night.

It is this slow memory of near timelessness
that revolves through my bones and flesh
and is cooperatively shared
not just with my own Win-matriarchal
and Win-patriarchal lines,
but also our globally shared regeneration
through timeless ecstatic moments
of symbiotic great transitions,
commencing nine months for each preparation
to greet our brothers and sisters,
cousins and families
extending back through competing histories
and cooperative matriarchal nutrition and health mentoring,
fire and wind and water and safety education,
revolving through slow-growth wisdom
of timeless sunrise,
oceans of DNA and Elder RNA,
regenerative,
synchronic
places and times,
landscapes
and heathy creolizing climates.

I have bloomed and wilted
where I have been planted,
and where I have chosen to plant myself,
and our future 
greeting past revolving sacred memories,
here with now.

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