I have heard making pilgrimage to India,
to study asana, is like being broken-open.
The first month you are cracked;
the second you are rewired,
and the third you are pieced together new.
I have heard making pilgrimage to family,
to co-create human beings, is like being broken-open.
The first child opens you, raw;
the second rearranges your understanding;
the third confirms the mystery,
and the fourth pieces you together new.
The rubied pearls of pomegranate
sparkle in their halved bowl,
the depth of red juice filling in the gaps
where the membrane segments and cradles
the seeds like yolks in whites in shells.
The full leafed plants languish
in the November garden
while the children push their root
systems into their still-warm earth,
crushing the bright arils between their teeth,
exploding the tart-sweet mysteries
of love’s reciprocity, of grasping and giving.
