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.
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.
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.
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.