I am making room for this raw birthing,
upsurge of emptiness,
embodied birth canal open to receive dark light.
I am tasting the soft me,
the self that is truly one-time stew,
my blend of flavours and stirrings.
The lid has clattered to the floor,
the stew continues to simmer,
waiting for new ingredients.
The lid has clattered to the floor,
the soup is not finished.
I am open to the soft me,
the invitation to sip savoury sweetness,
to offer up my broth
for hungry travellers.
I am open to right now,
listening for the dance of molecules,
vast stillness between them.