Fingers tingle from nettles prickle
I look for my reflection
In the last light of dusk
And what do I see?
I see clouds, I see sky
I see flashes of light
And storms a brew.
The tick tock of the hand of a clock
Like sperm they swim
Determined to give birth to the next
Their movement is not random
Yet like birds they scatter
From one central point it seems they pulse
They come and they go
Beating to the rythm of the earth
I speak to them
And to the nettles whose sting cleanses me
And to the peas struggling to grow upwards in my garden
I speak to them in sing-song tones
Of my mother tongue.
Yes, my Mother’s tongue
The one from the far East
From the only people who have ever experienced
The destructive Might…
Of the Nuclear Bomb.
This is the language that comes
When I speak to the Earth.
Speculate, you may, on why that is
But it is.
From the warmth of my covers and the soft pillow of my bed
I watch the Moon wax and wane as it makes its nightly traverse across the sky
I watch the mouselike critter
With fur that hides any ears to be seen
Plunge its nose blissfully
Into the sweet sunburst of a spring dandelion.
And I listen to the lullaby of a chorus of many.
When sleep fails to call
I sit up alert
For the flashes of spring thundershowers
Or for the sound of the midnight howl
Of the coyotes on an almost moonless night
Did you know that the blueberry flower tastes almost as good as the blueberry?
Well it does.
But don’t eat too many
Flowers are the goddesses of Spring
That birth our Fall Abundance