These aren’t the words of empire that I learned as a child, that I spent years editing. These words are sovereign, rising live out of the sea, naked as Venus, luscious as magnolia flowers. They give birth to themselves, arriving unannounced from nowhere and everywhere… passed from tree to tree, carried in dewdrops, pollinated by bees, blown sun-ward with joy.
Oh I am hungry for them, these words made of pneuma, kinetic energy, the marrow of life. I need them like soup, soil, air. I will make prayers from them: dance-all-night, sway-to-the-moon, speak-from-my-womb, ruby-red prayers.
Words are being reborn, they are resurrecting themselves at the eleventh hour. The tabernacle is open, and words are flying out like birds, like seeds.
* One of the ancient titles of Mary.