Great mother writhes and moans on her sickbed,
Hoping her discomfiture will jog us awake.
Wildlife waits in the wings,
Wondering if we will answer the call.
The wind gives the trees their voice,
“Remember yourselves, remember yourselves…”
The buzzard screeches down from above,
“It’s not too late, humans!”
The world holds its breath, watching our every move.
We lift our heads, deer-bright eyes lock in wonder,
Our hearts entrain with an urgent pulse,
A critical mass of knowing is reached.
Great mother roars, the world sighs as one,
And, in a tsunamic surge of grace,
We are born anew, awash with wildness.
We gaze out from innocent eyes, that have seen it all before.
Thank you, mother,