Journey and Lunabella
"and your dreams
Lunabella, and Journey,
all the children.
This is what beauty looks like:
not magazine beauty, but inner glow,
truth shining out of bright eyes,
kind smiles. Beauty begins
from the inside out, and rarely
looks like a supermodel.
Beauty is the strength one gains
by living one's allotted years;
it encompasses joy and pain,
love and many losses. It doesn't
count the cost. It is revealed,
not in the falling, but in the rising,
as you rise and rise and rise again.
Beauty lies in the laugh lines
around your eyes; it is heard
in your cackle, seen in
your ready smile, your hand held out,
your "how can I help?"
It is a thing, not of countenance,
but of character.
It is hard-won. You know you have it
when you can make your tea
on a ridiculously lonely afternoon,
and still have a song in your heart.
Inspired by "Beneath the Sweater and the Skin" by Jeanette Encinias / Wild Writing with Laurie Wagner. The italicized lines are Jeanette's.
is so bountiful
with her gifts.
Life abounds everywhere;
small universes surround us:
mussells, starfish, anemones
in the tide pools,
fern, fungus, moss, and
old man's beard in the forest.
Geese fly overhead in formation,
spreading in wide v's, honking
their joy. Blossoms fall from branches
heavy with early springtime bloom.
The hummingbirds arrive.
Orcas dive and surface
down in the harbour.
Whole populations of bugs and bees
and butterflies carry out
their forward-pointed lives,
much as we do, thinking there will
always be more time.
Life thrives on the hope
of ever more life.
When wounded, the Earth Mother
immediately sets about
healing herself, putting forth
new tendrils that grow up
through the fissures
to cover the lesions.
The news reports so many species dying.
I comfort myself by walking forest trail
and sandy shore, to witness how,
in spite of all, nature is always
working so hard
Day 30 My word was Bountiful
My grandparents, who raised five kids
through the Depression, knew what it was
to be frugal. In Grandma's kitchen drawer
was coiled string and neatly folded
brown paper, for re-use.
They lived modestly in a small wartime cottage.
They never bought anything remotely luxurious,
never replaced their furniture, upgraded
or redecorated. Grandpa had two suits,
one for everyday and one for "good".
Grandma had a pink dress and a light blue dress
in the same style, made by a seamstress,
worn alternately. I can picture them now
as clearly as sixty years ago.
My family was impoverished,
but my grandma was shocked
at the expensive cuts of meat
my parents sometimes indulged in.
I often imagine how horrified
Grandma would be at the price
of a car or a house these days.
(I am shocked myself.)
From the Depression to Baby Boomers
to today, we have forgotten the lessons
of frugality. Landfills, an ocean
garbage patch, and a walk along
any street or shore are proof
we have become
a throwaway society. I think of
my Grandma's kitchen drawer:
the neatly coiled string, the brown paper,
the economical but comforting meals
rolling out at the same time every day,
providing a road map for me
out of chaos and into a
more orderly life.
Day 29 Elizabeth's word for me was Frugal
Inspired by Mothering Myself by Felicia Rose Chavez
I travel by cane these days,
tap tap tap,
reminding myself of my grandma
tapping her way back to the seniors' home
from my place, a tear running down her cheek.
She was homesick all those last years
of her long life. For a time, as I aged,
I was homesick too, until the universe
opened a way for me to come home.
This is life in motion. We are all traveling,
even when staying still,
walking through this light together
towards our hidden but certain destinations.
Field notes: a black bear is
ponderously pacing the Tonquin trails.
An owl called early this morning
from the park across the street:
They are traveling too.
Sometimes I journey while sitting
out front near the cherry trees,
head tipped back:
an eagle circles overhead,
reminding me of my daughter
mourning the move from the place
where eagles flew over her house.
Or I find myself back in the past,
moving through memories
of all the shining years,
lake-scent and whispering
engraved on my heart.
I return from these travels
humbled and grateful
to find myself, like a miracle,
here, in my life,
just the way I had
for so long
dreamed it to be.
The italicized words are from "Transportation" by Kristen Lindquist
This is what can happen on Day 26 of Poetry Month. The word Elizabeth gave me was Energy.
Marry in haste,
repent at leisure,
the playwright* said in 1693,
a lesson this wide-eyed girl
without a clue in 1963
learned a bit too late
to do me any good.
Life has such haste and urgency
when we are young: the hustle,
the bustle, the fleetness, the flurry,
the scamper, the scurry.
No wonder I'm so tired
after all that rush and kafuffle.
No wonder I slowed it all down
the minute I didn't have to
work three jobs just to survive
any more. (Thank you, Old Age Pension!)
How I love my slow mornings
with large cups of tea, surveying
spring blossoms. My fridge magnet
says it all: "You know you're old
when happy hour is a nap."
It used to be a joke. Now
it is the truth.
Smiles. Day 24
*William Congreve, in The Old Bachelour
Right here, right now,
I am gazing at cherry blossoms.
The next-door dog is
rolling and rubbing himself
on the lawn, making us laugh,
reminding me of my own wolf-dog,
how he cracked me up every day,
how, at times, he tried so hard
What is wisdom?
What is letting go?
the poet asks.
Now is the time for
long, slow days, sitting
in the sun remembering:
all the losses, all the gifts,
the hellos and the goodbyes.
How joyously we welcomed in
all of those highs,
how we mourned all the lows.
And yet what we were mourning
were the things that had brought us
the most happiness. So were they even
losses in the end?
Perhaps wisdom is
the letting go,
the acceptance of
Being Here Now.
I cast my mind back
through all the years,
plucking out this memory,
and that, like silver-backed salmon
from shining seas.
Truly, I am not counting losses
at all, but only gifts. Old age
is a time when we have let go
of the pain, remembering only
The italicized lines are from Barbie Joins a 12-Step Program by Denise Duhamel
My river journey
took me to the sea,
where I plunged into the Ocean of Joy.
More alive than I had ever been,
I gloried in old growth forests,
long sandy shores, waves
rolling in like row upon row
of white-maned horses,
sunrises and sunsets beautiful enough
to break your heart, (or lift it
higher than it had ever been.)
I was introduced to bioluminescence,
under a midnight moon: so magical
I can still see the waves,
the wake of the boat
outlined in radiance.
My inner wildness came out to play:
the waves blessed me; the dunes
dubbed me Wild Woman
of the Western Sea.
I was more joyous than
I ever knew I could be:
ten years of joy every morning;
ten years of gratitude at dusk.
That Ocean of Joy called to me
after I went away. It did not stop
calling until I came back to stay.
My word from Elizabeth was Joy
I paddled the river of sorrow
with a voyager's brave heart,
for I always knew I'd emerge
from the rapids and find
a kinder, gentler way.
I set my compass to True North
and followed the Map of Believing,
for Hope was the name of my craft,
and Trust was the journey.
There came a turning
where some voyagers choose
the Fork of No Return.
It descends to the lower depths,
travelers stuck forever
in the swirling eddy
of pain and regret.
I took the sunnier fork,
with the blue sky above me.
Small birds flew ahead, circled back
to encourage. Their song led me forth.
I met fellow believers. We smiled
and we sang as we paddled.
We were now on the
River of All We Could Be
and the time was all morning.
The passage was swift and
it taught me the joy of the journey;
amazement, reverence, humility
as the river gave me its gifts.
It is eventide now, and my paddle
has slowed for my arms
have grown tired. Content to drift,
I'm at peace in the Stream of Reflection.
In the Estuary of Gratitude,
I give thanks for all miracles and wonder.
When it's time, my craft
will slip softly away from its moorings
and I'll paddle off to the stars.
My word from Elizabeth was Sorrow.
The Dead Woman came into her body
at mid-life; a slow emergence,
the thawing of ice, the painful
experience of feeling her feelings,
unfolding her icebound limbs,
that made her long for the frozen state
The others would not let her go back.
They insisted she Be Here Now,
fully present to all life would bring.
Allowing her space in their proximity,
until she felt safe, they
gentled her into bloom. Then,
like a flowering tree, dropping
poems like spent blossoms,
she unfurled her crossed arms,
opened herself to the world,
and the world loved her back.
The sunshine of love and life
drew her forth, with music
and song and lovely people
dancing in a circle in a meadow.
Because they believed she was
someone to love, she did too.
She became Wild Woman,
fully herself, free, unfettered,
alive; and, after a short time,
she spread new wings
A poem about Presence, as a response to yesterday's Absence.
Elizabeth Crawford at Soul's Music gave me the word Absence. In return, I gave her Presence. And next we will contemplate Separate and Together. A way to get through the rest of April.
"Hope takes root
in suffering and sadness."
- David Montgomery in his essay
in the Washington Post
Hope is a radical act,
an act of love,
a refusal to be defeated,
a promise to the planet,
an offer to help,
right here, where I am,
that says: I see you, each struggling
tree and wolf and salmon.
Your right to live is
just the same as mine.
Hope does not turn away
in despair. It steps out the door,
joins the blockade, writes the
letters, signs the petitions.
It holds out its hand,
says "How can I help?"
Hope is the Raging Grannies
on the steps of Legislature.
It is the refusal to allow
the Earth's destruction.
It is the peoples' voice
we demand climate action.
Hope cleans the beaches,
greens the planet,
grows a garden, saves an old tree,
unblocks the small creek where
fish are trapped, writes the poems,
sings the songs, finds homes for the strays.
Hope puts huge doses of positivity
and action and willingness
out into the world, an energy
that travels far, and catches fire.
May it spread through our billions
of hearts. May our billions of hands
reach out to heal Mother Earth
right where we are. May the grey clouds
of hopelessness draw back
to reveal a morning shining down
on Earth Warriors, encouraging the bees,
removing plastic from the ocean
and turning it into roads, restoring
wildlife corridors, planting forests,
walking more, driving less,
feeding the hungry and dispossessed.
May that morning sun rise upon
an earth that's truly blessed,
each of us doing what we do best.
Loving the Earth with hands and hearts,
where our Mother needs help,
we find a way. There is a little
prayer I pray:
Let's turn all the guns into ploughshares,
and with them till the hearts of humankind,
so together we can turn the soil
of Mother Earth
onto a better, kinder,
for Brendan at earthweal whose wonderful essay prompt, in honour of Earth Day, is to write affirmations of ways of restoring Earth.
It's the third wave of the pandemic,
numbers rising alarmingly,
the virus now attacking the young,
who are tired of restrictions
and, ignoring them, are increasing
the likelihood they will continue
Small businesses are closing their doors;
grandparents languish for lack of hugs
from their grandchildren; we wonder
what it will feel like to walk around
with naked faces again one day.
This morning I remembered
the tiny Suzuki violinists,
who played one night at the coffeehouse -
how adorable they were, how their mothers
stood behind them, playing their own violins;
how everyone smiled, and life was golden,
and so safe. We had never heard
of a mass shooting, in that quiet town,
in that peaceful year.
A thirteen year old with his hands in the air
is shot and killed by police, and people
quibble over what he "might" have had
in his hands just before.
A thirteen year old, shot and
killed by police. We are having
the wrong conversation.
The cherry trees, in full bloom, are full
of hummingbirds: darting, drinking joyously,
their tiny wings buzzing overhead.
I sit and watch them against the backdrop
of cloudless blue. Anyone would think
this earth is a garden, that life is meant
to be peaceful, that we are here to share
and lift each other up.
It is the third wave of the pandemic,
and the beginning of the Sixth Mass Extinction.
My heart is heavy with remembering
the decades that brought us here;
it is lightened by small hummers
in the branches overhead,
who make me grateful for
these hours and days of peace,
the gift of white blossoms,
sunshine and blue sky: that sky
that has companioned me
all my life, and kept me
A small, weary metaphysician
sits on my left shoulder,
muttering in my ear: "there's no hope;
clearly the world has gone mad", or:
"surely, the transformation of consciousness
will occur; as the crisis escalates,
humans will know we have to
change our ways."
She is realistic, yet stubbornly
refuses to abandon hope.
Then we turn on the news;
not much hope there,
though we are both pleased to observe
the kindness of people to each other
when things are dark and scary.
We applaud those who stand up,
reach out, object. We love the helpers.
This is what we see: a schizophrenic
population at odds with its own inner knowing,
angry, lashing out, forgetting how to
dive within and tap into our greatness.
My small metaphysician observes
a befuddling planet full of warring factions
who see only Others, and crown Self king.
We have decided our job is
to notice the small things: how the surfer
stands up on the lip of the wave and
slides softly down; her joyous shriek;
the kindness in dogs' eyes, their tails wagging
an endless happy-to-meet-you.
(Let's all be like dogs.)
We stop to ponder the dewdrop
on a morning leaf, six fat robins on the grass
listening for worms (we listen, too.)
Since my small philosopher and I are old,
we are free to be as odd as we please:
to pontificate or cease from speaking
altogether; to be amazed by every blossom,
every bird, the way a cloud puffs
perfectly against the sky.
For so long we "sought the approximate
weight of sadness," but in the end,
it is joy and beauty and the possibility
of peace which frees us.
For, after all, what a breathtaking, beautiful,
wonderful world this is! It has been a journey
of Amazement, of Gratitude, and of Wonder.
Inspired by "The Metaphysicians of South Jersey" by Stephen Dunn. The italicized line is his, and my closing line differs in tense from his, which was "what a world it was."
When forests fall,
do the mother trees weep tears,
do the roots grip hands
under the forest floor,
cling to the earth,
resist the grapple-yarder?
Do they hurt, coming out
of the ground like
the wisdom teeth of the planet
are being pulled?
When forests fall,
thumping hard onto the earth,
wild ones fleeing in terror
as the worst predator on earth
approaches with screeching saw,
do the nature spirits rage
or only mourn, rage being
foreign to their nature?
When forests fall,
and temperatures climb,
speak untruths to soothe the masses,
we speak for the trees,
we stand for the trees,
we plead for the trees,
we risk arrest for the trees
the forests fall.
Sharing with earthweal's open link
Today, his human, whose life has been hard,
heard his time on earth is limited,
his main worry his fur companion,
four times rescued, another survivor
of this up and down life.
Today that creature's intelligent wolfish
light blue eyes are sad.
Somehow, he knows.
Sadness in the walls; sadness in his human's voice;
sadness for the trials and losses,
all the heartbreak and courage it takes
to keep moving forward in this world
through Whatever Comes.
Some nights, a poet just can't find the words,
though all the songs in the world
are of just this: life and death,
love and loss, joy and pain.
all the songs are sad songs,
in human and doggy hearts.
Let me sing my song for the struggling world,
a low wolf-howl at midnight
as wolves and bear and deer
pace vanishing habitat
to find a place of rest.
Let me sing of wild salmon, lice-riddled
and cancerous, struggling up-river
in a migratory trek as old as time,
and of the bear and wolves and whales
who eat them, now going hungry.
Might I sing of tree-fallers
razing ancient forests,
the shriek of the insatiable saw,
the thump as the Old Ones,
here for thousands of years,
hit the earth, roots and
underground networks sorrowing;
birds fleeing in terror, fallen nests
full of babies left behind?
How find a song of joy
in the midst of this madness?
It is Mother Earth Herself
who teaches me to sing.
No matter how stressed, she
rolls out her bounty every spring,
every living system programmed to live,
to heal, to stand upright
after being knocked down -
like we humans, who forget how nature and we
are wrapped in the same skein, attuned to
the same cycles, rising to fall then rise again.
We come from the stars, but it is to Mother Earth
that we return, becoming one with the wind
and the soil and the sea and the sky.
When it is time,
plant something green and growing
on my grave and, when you stand there,
remember: here is one who loved the earth
with wonder. Here is one who said thank you
to every tree and cloud and inbound wave,
to every fluttering bird.
Here is someone with a wolfish,
gentle heart, who walked
with a light tread and sang
the forest's song.
for Brendan's very cool prompt at earthweal: Toward an Eco-Poetry
"MMMMM," she says, licking,
nibbling along the edge of her waffle cone.
"Oh my God!" agrees her friend,
loosening a chunk of chocolate
with her tongue.
As they step outside the shop,
cones held aloft,
a brown and black dog sits up straight,
being His Very Best Self,
thinking the treat is for him,
and everybody laughs.
"Let's talk about positive things,"
they had agreed as they set out.
Too often, these days,
the news is bad, alarming, scary.
Too often, it feels like
half the world's gone mad.
But when the sun is shining silver
patterns on the sea, and small
migrating seabirds are gathering
along the shore, as they have done
for all the years before,
when dogs with loopy grins
gambol across the sand,
and an ice cream cone is
melting in one's hand,
when all of spring and summer
lies before, life is so good
we need not one thing
Before I knew I was on the path,
I was on the path, eyes fixed
on the sky, breathing deeply
the essence of tree-ness,
sage, and Ponderosa pine.
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
informed me I am an ocean person,
though I spent years in the desert,
distant waves advancing and retreating
in my heart.
The universe sent me guides:
gentle people whose way of being
in the world changed my life
and my story. Very soon after,
I gathered my wings and flew
over the mountains to the sea,
and joy came to reside in me.
I have lived halfway between
convention and the longings
of my heart for the wild places,
dreams of cabins in the woods,
off-grid, floathouses on the shore,
a foot in both worlds,
but heart all green and wild.
A wolf spirit companioned
my journey, the years he was alive,
and the ones since he's been gone.
Looking back, I clearly see
the path, how it curved and
made connections at exactly
the right moment in time,
how it led me where
I was meant to go. In my lifetime,
the universe has sent me so many gifts.
This morning the cherry blossoms
are about to open
on yet another spring,
and I am grateful, grateful
to hear the wild world sing.
She wants edgy
but I'm all soft surfaces,
for life has honed me smooth
and knocked off all
my bumps and corners.
She wants specifics
but my brain is soup.
I pluck out familiar things
I can identify, a branch, a leaf,
but when it comes to the names
of moss, moss is just moss to me,
and beautiful enough that way.
She wants poems about
the being-ness of trees,
when I am still trying to master
being a human loving trees.
I need to go into the woods
and stare at a tree, allow it
to reveal its specific self to me.
Then maybe I can write
about what it is to be a tree
in this world that is so dangerous
to trees, and you, and me.
Day 10. An editor here in Tofino is doing a tree poem anthology that is going to be amazing. I am struggling with submission guidelines, non-specific as I am, and prone to generalities.
In a moment, the middle of an ordinary day,
the neighbour comes home
with his whole world crumbled.
Cancer, round three, has accelerated.
His rescue dog, who has survived so much,
his feral now-tamed cat, face more
inevitable change. He faces much more:
a battle he has fought two times before.
The poet says "let it all in,"
yet our human minds grapple
with the details. We resist.
We "But..." We "What if...."
We grasp. We want a different
story, a kinder one.
The ending is the same.
What is, is here before us.
"Practice becomes simply bearing the truth,"
she says. Down here in the rubble,
in our sadness and our human
helplessness, we are urged
to see with new eyes, rise up,
as an eagle seeks higher ground.
Sometimes this is possible.
More often, it takes some time
to get there, to where we "allow"
what is already here to unfold
as it unfolds. Surrendering, riding
the current, small paper boats circling
the swirling depths.
Inspired by "Allow" by Danna Faulds. The italicized lines are hers.
They say there are no perfect conditions,
just carry on anyway, don't wait
for a more auspicious time.
Perhaps this imperfection, and
our rising to meet it
is the perfect time:
this moment, right now
is what we have.
Show up in this noisy, half-crazed
world, gently, the way
the morning light
rises up over the mountains.
Show up for whatever comes
your way. It may be bad news.
It may be a walk along the shore.
It may be the spooky light-blue eyes
of a goofy laughing dog
who loves you, who cavorts with
silly pleasure when he spies you
through your window.
It is possible that this poem
is a practice. How surrendered,
how accepting, can I be?
How well can I carry
this earth grief / this earth joy
in the same moment?
The poet said "show me
the wild animal that you hide,"
and here he is, Wolf, howling
in the forest, which is falling
all around him. Here he is,
trying to save his pack
from human predators.
Here he is, howling my grief
and my outrage that his home
- and our home - so beautiful,
so breathtaking - is being
carved into bleeding
ravaged pieces so corporations
can grow rich.
Inspired by Holy Humanness by Olivia Cooper. The italicized line is hers.
I just sent letters to the Executive Director of the UN Environment Programme, and all appropriate BC government ministers, about the need to stop the logging of old growth. The crazy thing is that the BC government in 2020 issued a report calling for a halt to logging of old growth - and yet Fairy Creek is to be logged - thousand year old trees, so rare and endangered on the planet.
It feels like a losing battle. But also feels good to do something. Some of us are asking the UN person to let BC know it is being seen internationally and is operating against the UN's values and goals. Worth a try.
Will share this with earthweal's open link.
It is raining and the recycling
is sitting in the blue box on the curb.
The cherry buds look saturated;
I wonder if they will bloom.
Maybe after the next hot sunny day.
In the blue box the recycling
is sitting on the curb.
Another day begins in Clayoquot Sound.
At Fairy Creek, the arrests
will soon begin. Protectors
of Mother Earth will get hauled away;
the corporate criminals will laugh
all the way to the bank.
The kettle sings; another day begins.
As the trees fall in the forest,
so many of us care.
My aching heart is with those
at the blockades,
singing Water my blood,
Fire my spirit, while my old
wrinkled sedentary self
sits here helpless in my chair,
as blue as the recycling box
on the curb.
"Worth More Standing" the young ones
say. It's true. What price tag
can be placed on the Old Ones
who keep us cool
and give us air to breathe?
It is raining and even the recycling
is blue and sitting on the curb,
like any other ordinary Wednesday.
The days go by; the last
of the Standing People fall,
breaking my heart and
terrifying every displaced
wolf and bear and bird.
"You can learn to whisper,
to turn up the volume,
to sing within the family
- Richard Louv, in Our Wild Calling
I have looked into the huge, ancient eye
of a grey whale, who whooshed up
alongside my boat, thrilling me
to my toes. Her breath smelled
as old as time, a mix of ocean floor
and fetid air; us, sharing that breath,
that gasp of oxygen, that moment in time
unlike any other, before her head lowered,
her back arching, fluke rising,
then vanishing under the sea.
That day, we passed a small island of rocks,
inhabited by sea lions. When we cut the motor,
and drifted, we heard their growls and barks,
they turning their eyes on us, strange creatures,
gently rocking in the sea in our red survival suits
and rubber boat.
In the trough between waves, small puffins
were bobbing importantly atop the waves,
looking like small officious hoteliers,
suave in their tuxedos and smiling beaks.
They say each whale has her own song,
communing over vast distances:
certain sequences indicate location,
gathering, or alarm.
Once, on the other side of the Island,
a man with a flute lowered himself
into the sea, with a microphone.
When he played a series of notes,
dolphins echoed them. After a time,
they began to improvise their own riffs
on the notes he had played
- an inter-species jam session.
This thrills me.
Perhaps what we, as a species,
need to learn most is to
quiet ourselves, to watch,
to listen, to what the singing earth
is trying to tell us. Within the
family of animals, together
we can begin to sing
a new song, one of joy
and communion, concern,
compassion, hearts open
to every other
Had 2016 to 2021 been written
years ago as science fiction,
no publisher would have published it
because it would have been deemed
And yet, here we are.
What we are left with is irony,
satire, boggled minds.
Laced with some stubborn hope,
because we are human creatures
who cannot live
The work of the poet is to name what's holy:
Fairy Creek, ancient, mystical,
habitat for the non-human realm,
lungs of the planet.
The holy work of saving old growth trees,
the last of their kind, from being clearcut.
Wolves, their howls at midnight
as they search for a safe place to hide
The neighbour's dog,
whose light-blue eyes - spooky, half-wild -
his toothy grin, smile at me.
His huge and perky ears.
The work of the poet is to
write it all down; capture the moments
tinged with the shine of memory,
and those with the immediacy of right now:
this moment of the pandemic
when the race is between the variants
and the vaccine, when people are tired,
and we seem to be losing the race.
So here I am, on a grey rainy day,
tapping away at the keys. By now,
I have worn the letters off some of them.
The hills are wrapped in clouds,
like a shawl over a grandma's shoulders
on a chilly afternoon.
My fireplace is on, cheering me.
Old tunes full of memories
spin, taking me back,
serenading me here.
Life is moving
but I am staying still,
listening within. Waiting,
with tears in my heart,
as the last of the Standing People
Inspired by "The Work of the Poet is to Name What's Holy" by Diane Ackerman. Wild Writing with Laurie Wagner. This week the courts ruled in favor of the logging company. The tree defenders trying to save Fairy Creek will now begin to be arrested. The corporate criminals backed by law; those trying to save the planet being charged and held. It makes no sense. The photo above is on the chopping block. On Vancouver Island, there is less than three percent of old growth left.
Wild Woman lifts her antenna,
swivels it around like a periscope,
assessing the territory. Much has changed,
herself most of all, on this journey
of sending sea-soaked words
out into the world.
The last of the old growth is falling.
Let the world fall silent
to ponder this grievous fact.
The Old Ones who provide habitat
for the non-human realm,
the lungs of the planet
that sequester our carbon,
will soon be gone,
as the planet warms
and the ice floes melt
and creatures everywhere
- including us -
A vast quiet has come to live
inside her chest.
Wild Woman is running out of words
of warning, of grief.
Resignation, a weeping sky,
Hope, a tightly curled, pink-edged
cherry blossom almost ready