by Kim Fahner
“This,” someone says to her in passing,
“is your year of the open heart.”
Weighted, this notion, heavy
like pregnant Florida oranges
in a fine net bag that is carried,
haphazardly, from the grocery store
to the sprung back door of that old house,
the bag swinging back and forth,
ahead and behind her feet now,
in time with her footsteps, her humming,
all lyrical and mystical, so without direction.
Weighted, this notion, of a year
blooming like a lotus, petals unfurling
and then edging towards fingers that reach,
eager for something that sits just beyond
a pool of light, just beyond the songs
of wind chimes that nestle in the cedar,
and the scented incense rising to
greet the sky’s newest moon.
— from Juniper Volume 2, Issue 3