The whirlwind has come with its black spiral, gleaming,
blowing all that was dead, burning all that
had been oppressed.

My house, a meadow, once had tulips blooming—
midnight purple, poppies glowing orange flames,
jonquils jumping up for sun beams.

I have left the underworld, waiting for the flower,
blossoming with my love, revealing the jewel of
my inner world.

I have learned how to make space for the flower
to emerge— trees unfolding their leaves, pushing
under the oppression of the dirt.

I am happy to do it all again, emerging with spring flowing
under my feet, bouncing squawking baby birds out of nests,
flying monarchs to the branch

where beauty bares her breast.