The Inner Whistling

 
They forgot to tell me too
 
that there was always this whistle,
this reed, making quiet music.
 
It moved like a woman
making her way
through a crowd
like a ship tacking
this way and that
on the sea.
 
It was the beginning of me
and the very me of me
and I became a stranger to it.
 
But when the mountain came tumbling down,
I knelt at a window and wept.
A small bird, blue like skylight
offered me milk and cookies
and sang into my weeping.
 
Then I fell into the hammock of the ancient moon
and a book began to write itself.
The pen was my keeper
and the page was my face
and the craft was yours, my god.
 
Dreamkeeper, Sleepweaver, Elegance of all:
I kneel to you. I sew your skin.
I wait at the road for your arrivals.
I return. I return. I return. 

– Tara Mohr

 

photo credit: Annie Spratt