the storm
even when you think it is
then what am i?
i am a who
that you heard
on the mountain pass
who lost himself
in the rhythm of sun beat breath
making offerings— love
what is love?
the storm is not you
in the setting sun
when the work is done
and the moon strikes hot
like the anvil's mother
and the cold scythe
chill worn metal
annealing father
in the rhythm of howling home
who knows what will keep
what have i kept?
the storm is not you
i am the eyeing
opening
dying
the mother knows death in giving birth
the father knows life in receiving death
we know their gifts
their bearing
unseen love, the both, and
what is seen— why do we doubt?
with this, i am done
tell me nothing more of fear
yes thank you
i've learned his names well
and she needs no more lessons
this is what i learned
the storm is not you
it is the teacher of who
