One Can Find Traces Of

This Earth Is My Sister; I Love Her Daily Grace, Her Silent Daring, And How Loved I Am. How We Admire This Strength In Each Other, All That We Have Lost, All That We Have Suffered, All That We Know: We Are Stunned By This Beauty, And I Do Not Forget: What She Is To Me, What I Am To Her.

To Make Love Is To Become Like This Infant Again. We Grope With Our Mouths Toward The Body Of Another Being, Whom We Trust, Who Takes Us In Her Arms. We Rock Together With This Loved One. We Move Beyond Speech. Our Bodies Move Past All The Controls We Have Learned. We Cry Out In Ecstasy, In Feeling. We Are Back In A Natural World Before Culture Tried To Erase Our Experience Of Nature. In This World, To Touch Another Is To Express Love; There Is No Idea Apart From Feeling, And No Feeling Which Does Not Ring Through Our Bodies And Our Souls At Once.

But Still, The Other Voice, The Intuitive, Returns, Like Grass Forcing Its Way Through Concrete.

The Mind Can Forget What The Body, Defined By Each Breath, Subject To The Heart Beating, Does Not.

Telling A Story Of Illness, One Pulls A Thread Through A Narrow Opening Flanked On One Side By Shame And The Other By Trivia.