Towards Bigger Poems

“The mountains skip like lambs… the trees of the field clap their hands”

 

Immobilised, these mountains

Have no heels for skipping

But they dance in the swaying of their trees.

 

These sitkas, oaks and cedars

Have no hands for clapping

But the breezes shake their branches.

 

These branches have no song

But they lift up the birds

And carry their carols skywards.

 

But the birds have no words…

 

Here, little sisters, take mine.

Let me be your librettist

That your song may resound in me

 

That my song may be healed with

Your ancient majesty, your green upwelling,

Your swift-winged melody.

 

Then our dance and our applause,

Our music and our meaning

Will be offered in praise to the One

 

Whose party is just getting started…