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.