In devotion to the divine metaphysical source, Ash channels concepts, inquiries, and material studies on worlds seen and unseen. Their work unfurls as they travel the spiralic patterns of our collective and individual unveiling. Returning, unearthing, opening, and remembering are at the core of their creative practice- revealing information otherwise obscured by time, place, perception.

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Letters to a World Worth Loving

A collection of poems in devotion to the natural world

In the Beginning

In the beginning there was only the Goddess.

She was an infinite density of time made of conscious light, drifting in an endless dream.

Where her heavenly form ended and the emptiness began, the matter of creation vibrated on an electric edge.

The absence that comprised the emptiness made love to her and her to it.

What if I could create another being in my mirror image? One who would feel what I feel so that we could worship this together? For how wonderful it is to exist, I know.

And so the Goddess bowed in service to the Darkness which enveloped her. And then something happened. She felt her pleasured song shifting shape. A spell forming.

“I love you” she spoke aloud to herself, the void as her witness.

Her words were an instruction which light and matter followed, spewing themselves wildly across time and space. Leaving home.

The furthest interdimensional star systems, her awareness manifest. 

Heat, Tension, Energy, Calm, Cool, Rest, Becoming, Returning.  

Trillions of eyes and organs and roots and blooms and trombones and croissants and you and I on a porch saying “Love will surprise you.” as if it were actually a memory about how we fell in love at the very beginning of time because it’s true- it’s where we come from.

Becoming a Wave

In my room in the sun’s light,
I do animal things.
I writhe around and push into warm spots
or melt-
pressing to melt.

I admire my wild body
its curves and lines
they glow
for me.

I turn my face toward the sun,
like all animals do.
And the sun, she
speaks back to me

Slowly, she drips
a steady message
through beams of light-
they seep into my pores.

Organizing behind my exodermal sieve,
A call to become light.
And the sun, she
instructs me as to how.

I try to tell others-
but the language is beyond me
all I can muster is “you are not you”

Meanwhile I am turning-
almost without effort
from a particle
into a wave.


Even when the people are asleep
the massive dance goes on.

Do you wish to hear it-
the tongue of the crows
who gather daily in ceremony,
discussing at length- the Otherworld?

More than to listen, but
to believe them.
To know that they mind
the turning wheels
of giving and grieving, in this

Do you wish to taste it-
how the earth offers herself
to you?

How she offers you as well?

How you ripen and rot,
along with all fruiting bodies,
daily, lunarly, annually, and finally?

How small and vital.