Brown Eyes

You are the Cypress tree we watch day and night,
and you are now black against a blue sky
that pushes into lavenders and pinks.
Purple martins shoot across your highest space,
shapeshifting in their acrobatics
to be more than a single bird in flight.
This bird-filled sky peers through me
until the lines of my face disappear,
and it is every face that I have ever worn
in every lifetime I have ever lived.
To find a way to be in endless harmony.
To keep coming back for more
in all of these breakable lives.
To be my own keeper, my own master
always reaching for the same sacred sky.
To be boundaryless.
To be known by my own heart,
loved tirelessly by my own soul.
To love all else that lives and breathes and exists.
To see it all as one.
To know no limit to kindness.
To be a part of all of the love all of the time.
To be the pink sky filled by a harvest moon.
To be the green of the tree that crowds that same sky.
To be the frog that sings in the tree or the mockingbird who sleeps within it.
To be the air that wraps itself around my throat as the wind rushes over me.
To be the cool beneath my bare feet in the wet night grass.
To be the tiny hand that reaches up for mine.
The brown eyes that call me mama.

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