Tell yourself that this is the most potent form of activism,
this gentle swaddling and tucking in,
this sighing out the extras of summer,
this simmering of broth,
this spooning and sipping to warm the belly,
this tender massage of hips, of root,
of flower that has spent the warm season casting its pollen,
now ready to fold, to sojourn into dark interior,
where light is gathered from tide, from moon and stars.

Tell yourself this only feels strange because it is radical,
and radical only because it has gathered dust
under trauma of recent decades.

Tell yourself that the ones alone in their houses without food and water
are listening to the same invisible music 
and that if you dream of them found, they will be.
That they are.

Tell yourself that when there is more pollen to share, that you will share it,
as you have always done,
but that when you have reached the body's limits,
then the next kind of magic resource must be summoned,
and that it is real,
as your care is real.

Tell yourself that your care is as weighty as gold,
as hydrating as oxygen,
as big as a helicopter
sweeping its lights over the swamp,
​as sturdy as the ropes pulling up the bodies
of strangers whose Autumn began like the leaves-
shocked by cold, and floating
upon mysterious waters.

Tell yourself that the waves are not random,
unless prescribed to be.
Remember the crystalline structure of water droplets
changing shape under vibration of music and emotion,
and tell yourself you too can encode this moment
with a prayer as powerful as a hurricane.

Tell yourself that the hurricane of your prayer
has an eye the shape of Love.

Then let it sweep the earth,
let it flood every unbelieving cranny,
let it devastate hopelessness,
let it obliterate isolation,
let it do what warm broth does
for a cold belly.