Blessed are you when you stumble
into your perfect dance.
Blessed are you when you trip
and fall into your planting.
God does not apologize for her mistakes.
The footprint of the lost becomes a path
and the apple tree offers her first fruit to worms.
Of a thousand scattered seeds, only one grows.
Ruthlessly forgive yourself.
Chance every moment.
This rambunctious thistle was a milkweed thread
spinning in the breath of the unknown.
Sprawl into blossom, tumble back to seed.
Curled in frozen darkness, ferment
all Winter in your white hot potency
until she wakens you, whispering,
"Whirl again, little one,
there are no mistakes!"

Poem from my first book, 'Wounded Bud.'