So I May Be Suspended And Burn

How shall I speak of eternity?

How shall I translate the language

of the river today, when even here

things have changed,

and even I am not the same?

The song of the sun is short

today, yet full of all

the most beautiful notes,

as if the light has felt our longing

for it and written an invitation

across the sky, this rare gift of 

perfection poured into our waiting 

hearts—all the warmth it has to give.

The invitation is for wonder

and loving. It says: encircle 

your bodies like fairy wrens 

and fantails dance on eucalypt 

limbs; let the joy and grace 

of a rainbow lift up

your cold, pink cheeks.

It says: walk gently through 

the currents of your life, and when 

your feet become like ice, the hearth 

will be waiting and someone will 

be tending the flame.

After the long night, the sun will shine

its invitation to notice

how things have changed, how your soul

longs to befriend your mind 

and ask: what is my darkest fear 

and where has it made a burrow? 

I drank tea with a spider today and prayed

for its life, in honour of those I have

killed in fear, I welcomed it, offered it

my seat. I felt the sacred presence

of change, a small thaw in the wall

of some large subterranean cave,

a single drop of clear libation.

The invitation is to feel the clench

of fear and breathe so it might 

release. A frozen heart becomes

the stillness of peace.

How shall I speak of eternity?

I love the sun for what it grows

and I love the night for how it lays

to rest my haste, so I may be 

suspended and burn, like a star.

Helena Turner

Jul 2022