He sits in the midst of this moss-clad wood, and the whole world breathes within him.
She sings Her song of root and leaf.
Of tree and bird.
Of sky above and rock below.
Of gentle, flowing stream.
Those eternal rhythms of this Earth.
Silent songs. Secret songs. Songs known only to Her and to all who would but listen. She’s always there. She always sings. She always whispers deep within.
Steeped in wisdom.
Steeped in mystery.
He breathes in and he feels Her gentle kiss. He breathes out and he tastes the ease of bliss. He seems alone, yet he is held. His friends those birds and beasts and growing things are always all around.
She waits, and She watches, and into his quiet mind, She speaks of an ancient knowing, forgotten long ago but now reborn.
A knowing of all that’s green and grows upon this turning world. Of all that dance the spiral dance of growth and death and growth again. A cosmic dance that never ends and never starts, that always is and always was.
He sits in the midst of this moss-clad wood, as all things dance around him. He breathes deep. He breathes slow.
And ever, She sings to him Her silent song.
If you have any thoughts or feedback, let me know in the comments below.
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Thank you for your time and attention.
Max, I read this in the Marlborough Sounds early in the morning sitting on a boat in a beautiful bay. I was listening to cicadas, watching the fish jump and feeling in awe that She was all around me and I was part of Her. Your poem was absolutely spot on. Thank you for putting what I was seeing and feeling into words. Your timing was perfect!
The moss-clad wood with birds and streams. This place you describe is a place I dream of when the days get frantic.
I love this.