The Weavers Of The Air Poem by WIN VENTURA

I used to guard the golden grain,
To keep it safe from beak and rain.
I chased the dog, I cursed the rat,
And feared the silent, creeping cat.

I drew a line for peace to stay,
Where only gentle birds could play.
I thought the world could be confined,
To kindness shaped by human mind.

But hunger does not heed a line,
Nor bow to rules or grand design.
Each living soul, both wild and small,
Is driven by a deeper call.

As seasons passed, my heart grew still,
I learned to bend, not force my will.
For who am I to block the share,
Of lives that breathe the selfsame air?

The cat will hunt, the rat will flee,
The dog will roam in quiet plea.
Such ancient laws we can't ignore,
They've ruled this earth forevermore.

So let them come, both fierce and mild,
The tame, the lost, the running wild.
Beneath this tree, there's space for all,
No soul too great, no life too small.

My anger fell, my voice grew light,
I made my peace with day and night.
In letting go, I came to see—
The world was never mine to be. 🌿

By: - WIN VENTURA