The sky closes and gray water churns,
the mountains and nearby islands
just outline without definition.
Everything is as it’s always been
except the fish do not return
and the birds are few.
What ceremony can I perform,
whose face to carve upon the cedar?
Slick mud covers the roads,
rocks wet and treacherous;
the messages she sends harsh
as years of suffering take their toll.
She shakes beneath Patagonia,
waves shock the Molucca Sea.
I look out thirsting for her beauty
as the tide shifts, the force of ebb taking hold
and down in the roots I hear her drumming.
Following the heartbeat, the high keen of her voice,
moving through the darkness toward home.
Any ground is home
When I am but a
leaf in the wind…
Had to look up keen.
Here’s the sound I was thinking of for “keen”:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VP1J1lbj7BI
Transported and tremulous I marvel at your feelings and our Mother’s wounds.
If there are words that are able to engender a reverence for this earth they are not of the statistics on climate change, carbon emissions or the finite material resources of the planet; they are the words of the poet. Thanks for another great one.