Marrow Song
Bones know truths not yet told.
Listen to marrow, to the red beneath the white.
Where it is thick. Like syrup or sap inside the trees, the way it descends, to roots.
Go to the source of power.
When a caterpillar spins her thread she creates silk out of the sun’s rays.
The sun contains that which the moon transforms.
Moon, milky white like bone.
Changeable, the way insects are.
Molting, listen, inside pelvis shaped like
butterfly wings.
Listen, inside the places that will be hollow after death.
But now, now, they are full of stories.
Listen, quieter now, to the way the words come into form.
Shapes, smoke signals. rising to the moon and back to source, becoming out of its un-becoming.
We die and we are born and we are reborn.
These human bodies contain echoes of all the stories we’ve ever known.
Rippling out beyond the beyond, touching through to every human in the collective. Caterpillars, all of us.
When we listen, when we remember, we give birth to wings.
Words: stasha ginsburg
The Wild Matryoshka: Marrow Song
Available on Amazon
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