She Walks Between Worlds

water dreams 1 © heather rhodes studio petronella all right reserved
 

she knocks upon her own door,
she invites her self in

she walks between worlds;
fluent in countless tongues

she thrives in dreamtime,
spinning the golden threads
of her waking life
outward

the soft forest floor
receives each of her honest
and tender footsteps
like a prayer…

all manner of flora and fauna
are her kin;

in the evenings,
the verdurous mountains
entertain her;

effulgent starlight dances exotic,
falling to rest
on the pungent canopy
below

generous gibbous clouds
pour sacred teas
from their humid pots
to honor this holy soirée

comets stream through the theatre of
the night time sky,
weaving whispered secrets
through the luminous strands of her hair…

howls and growls of the wild things
lay low in the wood,
maintaining the equilibrium;

she can hear
the melodius hum
of the creatures burrowing
deep in the ground below her...

she extracts the effervescent beauty
from the cycles of living and dying,
and the erotic tension
that dwells between

she is comfortably poised
between heaven and earth;

her roots betrothed to the
moist, dark underbelly
of the sublunary world,

her branches wed
to the unruly, beloved circus
of life’s wild unfolding,

her crown,
dazzling the heavens;
a gushing fountain of cosmic elixir,
enlivened by the sovereignty of
her own inner queendom…

she is learning the art
of acquiescence; 
to the fluctuating flow of souls
in and out of
the story of her life

under the kind moon's gaze,
she releases her sorrow and regrets; 
like paper boats, they float
into the quiet river of surrender;

and the waters
run
gold...

she’s no longer apologizing for
her thirst for solitude,
her preference for fellowship
with the unseen world

she knows
her devotion to
the mere activity of her creativity
is beneficial to the whole;
no matter that a single
human eye ever gazes upon it,
or one tender ear ever hears…

she wears the jewel of her longing
like a flaming firebrand
in the chamber of her heart,

she listens to
that which has no sound...

she remembers
when birds were set free
as winged prayers;
to remind us of
our native divinity…

words & image © Heather Rhodes  at  Studio Petronella
model: emily
studiopetronella.com