Something was born
in the flushed light of this morning
embraced the listening secret
that need never speak
fish-mute and as silver
moon-shining soft as first feathers.
Would we could we
make home in this woven grass nest
too big and damp for birds
with windows onto the slow painting
of landscapes tree-bowing
to the wind’s rhythmic urgings?
I remember times before
where ghosts walk now
dance upon the green grass
dance away the dark into day.
Life and joy are not supine peaceful pleasures
but fierce as oceans wild as open skies
demanding as the voice of a newborn child.
I am posting the Oracle’s message to earthweal’s open link.