LINDA H.Y. HEGLAND

Rooted in Surrender

Bricolage Magazine of Independent Arts & Culture. 2013: Issue 3

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I find the fine, white scar

on my hand;

The result of a frightening question.

It sits in the webbed roots of

Bones and veins and the wear of time.

When did my hands turn to oak?

When did my skin turn to paper?

I place my hand on the soil,

Also cracked and lined and webbed.

Commonality, coincidence,

A universal sigh.

 

 

Ode to a Strawberry

Bricolage Magazine of Independent Arts & Culture. 2013: Issue 3

 

Little hole in you

Juice weeping

Something has experienced

You before

 

I taste the tear, the tear

Bite

 

Your tears stain my fingers

My lips

 

I hold you by your green root

See your white heart pulse

You are all-giving

 

The stain of you indelible

 

 

Bees Drink the Sky Off the Surface of the Water

Bricolage Magazine of Independent Arts & Culture. 2013: Issue 3

 

Murmur, murmur.

I sit with the bees.

It is a meditation

and I feel the hive mind surround me,

hold me,

and expand my body - cellular - spiritual.

Am I healer - like them?

Am I dancer - like them?

Am I artist and builder of universes - like them?

Small, exquisite lives.

Bee-murmur, loud quiet

join murmur of blood through

my veins.

I dance with the bees in my heart.

 

 

But you are not like river stones . . .

Bricolage Magazine of Independent Arts & Culture. 2013: Issue 3

 

We are all star stuff,

And what is a pebble if not made of stars?

Every pebble a story, a quest.

With a single pebble, the pebble

I choose to pick up and 

Place in my pocket,

I am carried into the abyssal depths of time,

Across the complexity of the universe.

It may speak of the molten purging 

Of an erupting volcano,

Of the lives and deaths of ancient animals,

Giant plants,

Long ago oceans and colliding earthen hearts.

It may be small and ordinary,

Not even pretty.

But it carries, like me,

Stardust at its core.

Its single pebble oratory is a story

Of all times and all ways of being.