by Alisa Muñiz Blanchard

Who is she,
 That bangs on your door
 Insistence of rapping
 The call echoing in the rafters
 You know
 And the running away from her
 Only brings you closer
 To the deafening cackle
 Of her raging heart
 Eye to eye one must surrender
 Amidst the mystery to the
 Hazy mystery of where she leads you
 Her stare is cold like spring rivers
 Her breath foggy like summer nights
 Her voice decays like autumn leaves
 Her skin is rough like the winter snow
 And still you must follow her
 Deep into the borrows
 Beyond the crust of the earth
 To the quickening of life
 In the molten core
 For there is no denying the call

 Once it has come
 And once you arrive
 You will be asked to turn around
 To walk back
 To find your way
 Until you realize there is no path
 To where you started
 Then you will bushwhack a new way
 Discovering with each turn
 New life under the composting piles
 Waiting to be found
 Layers of life will unfold
 Her voice calls again,
 Lifting you to the opening
 Offering a gateway
 To the beauty that is you.

Journal, Volume 2 Issue 2