Are you a border dancer,
never wanting fully to be here and
forever a passionate sliver of now,
sipping the drops, and drinking the deluge,
wondering what place you actually occupy?
It’s a slippery stick
meant for the ripeness of the forest floor,
unintended for adolescent hands.
What feeds does not come from you-
one so easily confused, acting comically small and guilty.
Real nourishment soaks in with time and respect
origin of nectar and mystery, the breast milk
of endowed life in service to the Gods.
Leave the stick to its mushroom duff
where growth and decay follow ancient rhythms.
the place unnameable, infinitely creative,
and belonging to no one.