Over, under, weaving red
branches. Walking on the beach to
find more. My machete in hand, I
spot the lines of red, the new
growth, that will be the easiest
to weave.

Like a huge basket, turned upside
down. Its purpose, to hold
blankets and cover. The aesthetic 
doesn't matter. But as the weave
become tighter, beauty arise from
chaos.

From a few branches, finally a form
arise. The cat realize, curious,
what is inside, come through the
door. I wasn't the first one in,
she was. She tells me, that
should be enough. A few more
weave, a few more branches.

The more I weave, the stronger
the structure. Over, under, skip
a few. I wanted it round, but the
shape changed. Like a vulva, or
an eye, I am not sure where it
will go.

I kneel down, the door is
low. Like in a womb, I enter
slowly. Like a vulva, now I
see. It can fit one, or two
closely. 

The eclipse is near, I finished on
time. Tomorrow a fire, to warm
the rock. Cedar boiling, a
purifying bath. A ceremony, to
be reborn, from this warm womb.