Beginning of a poem I wrote on the bus --- Green dust Sprinkled upon ground lies in sheets like fresh fallen snow That blanket warm with new life Replaces the shimmering white Off frost upon grass That like fragile glass once crunched underfoot In music of fragility It lies green and thick upon the hillsides Touching the accoutrements of Our human accomplishments Our anthills of asphalt, steel, and pressed wood Busy with our scurrying forms Buzzing with electric motion Green fingers fall soft Upon us Awakening us as from restless dreaming With the throbbing pulse Of Spirit song flowing through it As her mothering presence Labors amidst us to birth new life Like butterflies emerging From empty shells Wiped away in filmy layers on my fingers It reminds me if my own Tumult, scurrying, and frantic fear Which sets the anthill of my heart To constant motion My feelings blown like birdseed on the breeze Unable to settle Whispering to me how It is not some silver hued sign of threat That I feel Hovering over my souls horizons As my Tortured pasts try to teach me But instead Labor pains The Mothering Spirit endures in me So some new spring may dawn within Breaking my long winters chill.
Posted on: Tue, 08 Apr 2014 21:10:28 +0000
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