Raising The Moon 2a

Female alto voice, violins, harp, techno, pulsing beats, layered vocals, flute, oboe

V5.5

Radial comfort comes round, and the equations add up their numbers and count diﬀerently than ever before, so that the balance can right itself into a path that covers all the ground needed. Grounded into a new way, the Moon orbits the same, but diﬀerently perceived and diﬀerently being, so as the cycles occur, they occur diﬀerently, and tell something else. Timing will tell the Grace, as the registries spell out the Gift, beyond the short-comings, and the space gifts the time its orbital bliss. Opening up the castle, raising our feet to the top of the
floors, big steps, giant steps, hauling ourselves up to a
new level, and letting go of what’s behind. Folding all the patterns, counting on the satins and the wrinkles, and unwrinkling the old parts. We’re needing to step up more straight, more ready to the young needed. The young in us that thought it had to grow old, but can’t but won’t. Only the Mother knows why. She learned us up good, she made our fingers walk away, the way of listening, the way of drawing, the way of inking, and hearing the words, more blue than water. We are the survivors, we are the readers we are the
crawlers we are the listeners, we are the finders, we are
the spotters, we nick, nick, nick, at our own door. And we are the one who answers. No surprise. Yes, we found ourselves in the ancient archives. We began to know we knew, and most of all why. The nose knows, the body knows, the face knows,
the rumbling under speaks, and it climbs up our sides and runs through our fears, and makes us wander
and roll down under. Down under where the sadness is, down under where the missing listens. We feel the longing, we feel the reaching, we feel the gut-wrenching that we do feel the nose knowing, and we know the time is right. It’s right for change, its right for a new feeling, a new kind of laughter, a new kind of rolling down the hill like Jack and Jill. We whisper under the bushes like we used to, blackberry bushes all covered with tiny thrones. We pick them, each blackberry one by one and pocket into our movement. Blackberry moves everything. She’s black and blue and red in between. And she moves us from here to there, whether we know the way or not. This is blackberry picking season, and we have picked buckets full in our days in Warren. The rabbits know us, and they watch us leap and try to learn a new volume, a new opening a new exciting level, where blackberries are the daily fare moving us through the rambles, the scrambles, like we are a baby in a perambulator. Up above the rocks, up above the windy cascades shaded from he storm, the sun, the heat, and covered with kisses from the Mother. Folding it all up with a paperclip.

2692/7500

Radial comfort comes round, and the equations add up their numbers and count diﬀerently than ever before, so that the balance can right itself into a path that covers all the ground needed. Grounded into a new way, the Moon orbits the same, but diﬀerently perceived and diﬀerently being, so as the cycles occur, they occur diﬀerently, and tell something else. Timing will tell the Grace, as the registries spell out the Gift, beyond the short-comings, and the space gifts the time its orbital bliss. Opening up the castle, raising our feet to the top of the floors, big steps, giant steps, hauling ourselves up to a new level, and letting go of what’s behind. Folding all the patterns, counting on the satins and the wrinkles, and unwrinkling the old parts. We’re needing to step up more straight, more ready to the young needed. The young in us that thought it had to grow old, but can’t but won’t. Only the Mother knows why. She learned us up good, she made our fingers walk away, the way of listening, the way of drawing, the way of inking, and hearing the words, more blue than water. We are the survivors, we are the readers we are the crawlers we are the listeners, we are the finders, we are the spotters, we nick, nick, nick, at our own door. And we are the one who answers. No surprise. Yes, we found ourselves in the ancient archives. We began to know we knew, and most of all why. The nose knows, the body knows, the face knows, the rumbling under speaks, and it climbs up our sides and runs through our fears, and makes us wander and roll down under. Down under where the sadness is, down under where the missing listens. We feel the longing, we feel the reaching, we feel the gut-wrenching that we do feel the nose knowing, and we know the time is right. It’s right for change, its right for a new feeling, a new kind of laughter, a new kind of rolling down the hill like Jack and Jill. We whisper under the bushes like we used to, blackberry bushes all covered with tiny thrones. We pick them, each blackberry one by one and pocket into our movement. Blackberry moves everything. She’s black and blue and red in between. And she moves us from here to there, whether we know the way or not. This is blackberry picking season, and we have picked buckets full in our days in Warren. The rabbits know us, and they watch us leap and try to learn a new volume, a new opening a new exciting level, where blackberries are the daily fare moving us through the rambles, the scrambles, like we are a baby in a perambulator. Up above the rocks, up above the windy cascades shaded from he storm, the sun, the heat, and covered with kisses from the Mother. Folding it all up with a paperclip.

0/500