Before there were floors, and walls and ceilings, there was only sky
Before there were floors, and walls and ceilings, there was only sky.
And stars like vast lights of eternity.
And grass that swayed in the breeze.
And waves on the beach.
The ripple of the water, sunlight reflecting on the river like the body of a great snake.
There was nothing but the smell of dripping leaves, pungent soil,
brine from the salty air,
the swell of fruit on the vine,
the flesh of your body,
your breath like dragon fire, fierce and then soft as mist.
The animal in you pulsed and your heart beat like a strong drum, drum in your chest.
Your feet were a soaring rhythm upon the crust of the earth.
You danced the memory of the trees,
you danced the sway of seasons – the breath of the earth,
you danced the rain and the snows,
the sun and the stars.
Your feet understood a pattern deep in your soul,
so close it was like the imprint of your own palm.
Your body earth body.
And then there came a floor so your feet no longer pounded the earth.
And walls so the trees couldn’t whisper their secrets,
and a ceiling so that the kiss of the stars was missed night after night.
And slowly the memory faded,
the pulsing animal in your heart circled once and curled up.
No pungent soil. No dripping leaves. No swelling fruit on the vines.
You forgot the story of your body.
Just as you forgot the story of the soft drum, drum in your chest,
just as you forgot the smell of briny salt air and waves on the beach.
You forgot the call of your soul, the one true voice in the center of your heart.
Calling, calling you home.