She is the Mother in search of a Father, at least a figure of the man she believes she needs, and she does, does Love. I need know the pang of my own vacant fatherhood. In order to serve, I ingest and cleanse sickness and fear, in search of self, coming up empty, still combing the debris and on to the next dis-ease until we are the cure and not some vacant thing waiting for a savior instead of being one. She manifests the echo of creation come through the balance between God and Love. I now believe. I scribe the story with a balanced curiosity, with many hands and many souls. She waits, I groove. I wait, She grooves. You wait, We groove. We do. © 2015 Mark Richard Prime
(The Weaver's Song)