Trees of the universe –
What do they feel when their leaves, their fruit, their flowers
Drop to the ground,
Tremendous and terrifying cloud up above,
So black and furious,
Heavy with need,
Each water droplet leaving its source,
Going, dropping, falling,
Never to part of that cloud again.
Leaves so green,
Pollen so inviting,
Do you weep when your petals are bent, torn or ripped
By the wind or some other ferocious beast?
Wouldn’t it be better to be like the sea sand?
Covered by the deliciously cool ocean water,
But not forever,
The water returns without fail.
There is security in that knowledge..
Of a mystery so intense,
The moment of creation,
From nothing into soul.
A cell is born.
Living, existing, unseen,
In the most treasured haven,
Attached to the source of all that is good,
Hearing one voice,
Completely in you.
There is no separation.
Two are one.
Time passes and the little soul –
With skin, hair and nails,
Finds the light through the sacred tunnel.
She comes out,
Flesh of my flesh,
Being of my loins.
Mother of the child.
Time has passed.
So many tears,
So many arguments.
She looks at you and only sees your wooden bark,
Her eyes do not feast on the beauty of your foliage.
She is still in the shadow.
She only sees the stem.
Deep within her being,
She longs to smell your flowers,
Chew on your berries.
The wind of pain hits you relentlessly.
Your leaves are a bit pale,
Brittle around the edges.
You seek that which you first created.
You, too, cannot see the picture below you,
Of your created being who hides herself
In words and in anger.
There are too many thorns in the way.
You do not hear her sobbing.
Creator of life,
Let your leaves soak up the sun.
Do not fret.
The created always, eventually,
Seek their creator..
We all stop,
And try to make sense of She who
Carried us in her flesh –
The Imperfect woman,
Source of our very breath.
We all seek, when we are strong enough,
Though this can take time,
The mother’s embrace,
Impossible to be found elsewhere.
Our cells scream to be reunited with their origins.
You are missed, you are craved, you are wanted.
Through our histories of rage, loss and grief,
Mother-woman is closest to our existence.
Our salty tears long for mother’s touch.
Your creation is drifting,
Allow her to wobble, to get lost, to scream
At the moon.
You are not forgotten.
But that is okay.
Most beautiful Mother-woman …
The water returns to the sand.
The fruit is part of the tree.