The Lyric Poem Prize
With my feet bare I return to her, though
it does not suffice to speak only of roots
or ocean depths or even kinships and blood.
For when I seek my passage through her
or at my wisest when I read her currents
as might a river steward, her dark origin and
womb of night enfolds me in its mystery.
I bear her mystery in me like a deeply planted
seed, needing only to be reached by water.
Yet, after the rains have soaked into my body,
dissolving the edges of my ancient crystals,
I still find that the spirit of the valley opens
or closes her gate according to her season,
and her seed in me sprouts beyond reason.