woman,
if i could tell you the ways,
that you are a miracle
you wouldn’t look down.

and the shadows?
you would embrace them as they came like rain across the paddock.
you would instinctively know they are all a mesmerising blend of the cosmos.

woman,
i find you there at that wooden desk
that dips and curves with the rise and fall of a pen.
the scent of pine and felt pen still lives there
like history, like skin shedded,
like lantana scars on my knee.

woman,
if you didn’t think poet poet i must write like a poet
as you wrote
the words would drip like the rain from the pine needles,
gush down the drains and leave you radiant, naked in the pouring monsoon.

woman,
some days i feel so very very human and so very very lost
that i forget i am divine.
i feel so normal and blind and scrappling for truth that lives in the hand
that it is hard to hear the wise one in me say:
it’s all true leonie.

and man, i tell you,
same as above.