When the birds sing, their voices amplified by the running of sap

and the eagerly beating wings of bees, the  sickle Moon hangs

in a mottled sky, waiting. It won’t be long until scattered clouds and the rings of Saturn turn

the pale limbs of children into reeds that make sing the wind. I will put my knees

into the ground, dig my fingers into the brown and bustling soil,

and carefully place the seed. Life will begin again, as it always has, hungry

to survive and bring forth legacy, ensure continuity.

And the pulse will become the hum and the hum will become one

and two and twenty million of everything. Here the earth worm moves

through matter, while I require metal tools with which to rearrange what centuries

have recorded, layers, ribbons of rock and humus and ash. Here

the birds carry the seed to far off lands and rearrange the face of our world

and they do it in peace. As I gaze, hopeful for the harvest, I murmur:

Peace, please find me.

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019