Papatūānuku and Ranginui

* PRELUDE OF THE GATHERER

I stood beneath a tree and looked up.

Between the lowest branch and the ground there was enough space for me.

Enough for grass.

For insects.

For a bird to descend.

For rain to fall.

I stretched out my arms.

— Is distance always a loss? — I asked.

The wind moved through the leaves.

A dry one loosened and fell.

For a moment it belonged neither to the tree nor to the earth.

It simply moved through the space between them.

I thought of all the times I had mistaken closeness for love.

Hold tighter.

Come nearer.

Do not leave.

Stay exactly where I can reach you.

And yet a seedling pressed too close beneath another plant may never find the light.

A child held forever cannot learn the length of her own step.

Perhaps sometimes love needs distance.

Not because it has ended.

Because something else needs room to begin.

The leaf touched the ground.

Above it, the branch remained.

Between them was emptiness.

And suddenly emptiness did not seem empty at all.