A longing

I long for transformation,
Complete, utter, irrevocable.
Not the “on my way to glory,” hands in the air, hallelujah transformation,
But on my callused knees, belly to the Mother, last breath transformation.
Ecstasy and despair,
Bliss and heartbreak,
Strength and frailty.
Earth crushed
Wind whipped
Water drowned
Fire consumed.
What is fire anyway? What is it made of?
Pure consummation, untamed, it is more of an action than a thing.
Bird molting,
Snake shedding,
Caterpillar cocooning, in that elemental, imaginal goo.
I want to be germinated and composted,
Pulled out and plucked up,
Reborn in life for thousands.
This waiting of winter, with the frozen, lifeless landscape
Wondering what’s next and whether spring will ever come.
Well, some things are going to die.
Many things, really.
Slipping away under the frozen ground
Or too exposed to the blasting winds.
Forgotten, or probably not even considered
By those continuing on in their furnace warmed, television lit comfort.
But their death will feed the others.
And those who glean life from the demise will utter their own thanksgiving.
This is the transformation I long for.
Unknown to the comfortable,
Forgotten in the going on,
Foreign to the fast moving.
But life-giving to the hungry
And sustaining to the under ground.

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