Journey to Your Deepest Self

The Sweepers


At the end of the day
When the children are asleep
Finally still or
Softly stirring

When the house is dim and quiet
And the quiet is in me
In my deep, down below
Of the open, waiting quiet
Of the womb

I take my broom
Breathe up the quiet
An offering to heart and head
And sweep together
From distant, dark cracks and corners
Lint, crumbs, dirt, and
Sometimes a glass marble
Into a pile

So I can know what we made
That we made
Evidence of moments strung together
A fragile necklace

I am one in a line of women
Stretching down through time
All sweeping together the crumbs of a day
A thousand days meeting at one fine point.

I am also the one
Who is the room
The eternal room
That these women sweep and
I feel their brushing and
Their weight and
I hear their songs
And their mutterings
And their crying
I know them
I hold them

They know me too
More than just an inkling
A dream presence
Or premonition
They confide in me
Ask me what I know
We feel the mutual longing
For connection
Feel me
I am here!
How sublime to be among the sweepers


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