She is...

She is a coal-miner and a gold-digger.

Digging treasures, just beneath the human-layers of consciousness,

through the very depth of her own past shadows;

plunging through days and nights, diligently,

until hitting some “jack-pot”,

until the loud sweet crispy “Bing”, hitting the back of her head;

breaking down the underground pitch-black stuffy soggy air,

suddenly this once a life time triumph would be

echoing and lightning up, years of seemingly endless labor-work,

by the lonesome self, with only a small meager voice within the heart.

She is a word-farmer,

Gathering and collecting full-length of life’s colors and tastes, into

a delicate handmade parchment pouch,

Weathering through many cold winters;

just for the opportune season, of

some green south-east wind, some lucky rain-drops,

and some benevolent sunbeam; to

spread out collections of full-blown inkling seeds upon the vast blank field of unknown.

She farms just for the joy of farming;

the fresh air beneath the surface soil,

the metal tool stirring up the very fine fiber of her own existence.

The work is not work; but

Cycles of life, through word-farming,

cycles of death and rebirth,

plowing within her own soul reincarnation.

She is an incubator,

taking in whatever life threw at her,

and value every drop of gifts dearly;

Like a hen gently and patiently,

brooding and pondering upon a nest of

lively and sparkling potentials…and then

wait, waiting for the

time of eternity to ferment it out,

the pristine batch of babies.

Some time, there could be some weird-looking ones to others’ judging eyes,

but to her, every single one of them is perfect,

more beautiful and precious,

than the most expensive diamond in the whole world.

She is a kite-flyer,

Flying out a high dream in the invisible thin air; to

catch the fine nerve of some spring wind.

Some time, some kites might end up being stolen away by the stormy weather;

Who knows,

maybe it could land at another heart’s sunny bay,

bringing some comforts to that gentle tender soul.

Or maybe another time, she could be the lucky one, to

catch some lonely beautiful drifted long lost kite.

But really she just calls herself a thief,

who spots and steal the most visceral moment of textured feelings,

that running through her memory pouch.

She’s a conduit, a channel, an empath, a translator, a telepathic communicator…

While all those glittering sensational lives passing through her

pulsating harboring womb,

she marks them with soft kisses,

thousand folded paper-cranes, of

heavenly blessings.