broken open again
it doesn’t take much
to bring me here
overcast sky
steady, hard rain
sweet moist earth
the stream of ants
inside, again
small details
the familiar ones
crack me open
to this very life
and bear me home
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
bones know
bones sense
where home is
when a part
breaks away
a fall
or worse
it seeks
its way back
so it is with “I”
this I knows home
feels the pull
toward the root
of the root
will ceaselessly
search until
searching is done
tries psychedelics
plays extreme sports
sits in prayer
or meditation
no difference
except nuance
but still believes
tools might help
maybe they do
trust your bones
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
taproot
where have you
rooted deep
in the ground?
it may not be
where you live—
long, long ago
I sank my tap in
the Scottish highlands
land of bedrock
moors, firths and
unrelenting wind
overgrazed
over-hunted
wrenched from
her tartan people
the land still
bears the scars
my root is there
my bones know
yet it is not
my home
there’s a different
kind of taproot
more essential
than the quiver
when my feet
touch that land—
the root of
what we are,
each of us,
root deeper
and prior
before galaxies
before things
that is our home
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
head upstream
note to self
like a sockeye salmon
returning to her birthplace
head upstream
push against the current
look prior to thought
buck those falls
dive deep when the
grizzly paw swipes
find your original home
2022 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the heart of the matter 