Let me make you a mud pie of pine needles and poke berries,
of humbled curiosity and just enough.
Meet me with grace
in all that I am and desire to be.
I promise to do the same for you.

Teach me the shape of your desires and the color of your boundaries, the language of your love like the bird that sings in a three part trill in syllables that mirror my name.

It takes practice.

These aren’t languages we were taught in school. 

They are mirrored to us in the sacred spaces we show up in devotion to.
So can we step back for a minute from patterns of protection and projection
and just breathe?

Can we laugh over dirt cakes clumped together from the disappearing sound as we swim for the shore together?

A muddy mess to wade through but oh the dolphins we swam with and oh our bodies laying content in the sun.