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Image by Pawel Czerwinski

Making Wide the Circle
By Pauline Peters
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there are the Old Ones. over there.

evanescent, luminescent

nectared souls resting in pistils of day

still and calm against the whole of the sky

veined hands smoothing the linens of time.


there are the Old Ones. over there.

souls wide, deep, pacific

souls venerable as rooted mountains

souls bright crystal moons of winter

souls black ebony heartwood.


there are the Old Ones. over there.

seeding beginnings

gathering up the ends

making wide the circle

with life in it.

Image by Pawel Czerwinski

Me, Rising
By Pauline Peters

And as I rose (because I dreamed

of rising) I regreted that I had not

pressed my naked feet more often

into the soft brown body of the earth.

And as my feet pedaled, desperate in the air,

as I clutched at wisps of clouds,

I regreted that I was never planted,

and that I never had the honour of roots or leaves,

and could not translate the wind

into a chorus of fluttering green tongues.

And as her shimmering blue umbilical cord fell away

I ached for the earth, for her soil and heartbeat,

for her milli-faceted soul.

And as I looked down, as I turned and spun,

as cities became small enough

to hold in the curve of my hand,

I regreted that I had not been

pleased more often by the chalk white

shell of my morning egg, by its

floating golden heart.

I wished that I had pondered the mystery

of the singular whorls of my fingertips

and how my palms pressed together

could make a true cup for water.

And as I spiraled up and up and further still,

I wondered what new breath awaited,

what tall beings,

and would they be carved

of star or sky?

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