Simplicity
Has become my favorite word
Truth dressed down to a robe and slippers
Or nothing at all
I give her a pronoun
Because she feels like a body
With familiar maternal hands
Kneading dough on the countertop
She is the original agreement
To be exactly what one is
Without the confusion of becoming otherwise
Because how could we, really?
She is the measure of all things
In the height of my complexity
She measures the distance between what I am doing
And what I am
Building altars to elsewhere
Decorating the thresholds
And calling it purpose
All the while she was pointing right back here
Exactly as I was
In a realm beyond effort
With the grace of what belongs
And everything already arranged
Into an imperfect completion
This is where she lives
Tucked into old clocks and hand written notes
Down clear paths worn smooth over time
Brewing tea from all that is ordinary
With the soft refusal to complicate that which is already whole
Simplicity is mothering me
And I laugh at the connotation of barefoot and pregnant
Because these days I am always barefoot
And there is nothing
That sounds more like bliss than this