What stirs the soul
moves the forest,
guides the moon
and trembles the valleys,
flows in rivers
and travels the broad sea
speaking to birds
and fishes, hawks
in the high mountains
and the great herds of Africa.
The altars of pride
are dust to this wind
blessing the poorest
with the touch of awakening,
a tide of emergence
returning the old joy,
carrying us forward
on the path of the Earth
loyal and trusting
as we follow the stars.

We need the night
with all its darkness
wrapping us warm
in the theater of dreams,
our memory washed
and hung on the lines of time
to dry and brighten
in an underground wind.
Taking us back,
leading us forward
while the arc of stars
turns and wheels
and we come alive
to the yearning
of the night.

Before waves and wind the light
slanted across the sea
silver and shimmering
with clouds painted in the sky
like a Roman chapel.
Birds move silently through the air,
seals bob in the flooding tide;
I sit like the old rocks
quiet and unmoving,
waiting upon the sound of water
and the truth revealed
again and again
in the sacred text
written upon the clouds
spoken by the sea.

First the wind rising,
a whoosh in the tree tops
then buckets of big drop rain
soaking us with joy
from the wide arms of grace.