When Mother Earth Asks Me a Question

 

A Gathering In Remembrance of Lost Species
2018

Each morning asks me the question:

how will you help me heal today?

Sign a petition? Send a letter to District Council?

Premier? Prime Minister? Marking it “Urgent”?

Plant a tree? Rescue a dog?

Write about the climate crisis?
Blog for peace in the Ukraine?

Meanwhile, there is a cup of tea

and contemplation of my peaceful rooms,

before I turn on the news and absorb

the day’s anxieties: war, bombing,

people and animals terrorized, a madman

with fingers itchy for nuclear buttons

- power run amok.

Then I walk out into the morning:

tend my tulips, admire the Japanese cherry,

all in pink. Say hi to the neighbour’s dog,

whose grin warms my heart, walk into

the rainforest and commune

with the nature spirits,

go to the shore and whisper a “thank you”

to the All-That-Is for such beauty,

and that I am still here.

My eyes lovingly follow the rounded tops

of the mountains circling the village,

chart the eagle’s flight; my voice returns

the raven’s throaty croak.

We are all visitors here.

The frogs are singing on

the Connector Trail, so

spring is in full voice.

We love where we are

and what we love we protect

and try to save.

War is still waging; there is

heartbreaking suffering.

Nothing is as it was in the world,

yet everything is as it was right here
where I am living.

How we live with that duality

is the new tightrope walk
- the tender-footed dance -

that we are learning.