Out across the quiet field,
the wild cherry remembers
the song she sprouted from.
She wears the happiness of winter
with her white robe folded
around her wrinkled body.
What joy when clothed
like the swirling stars.
What joy when vestments
are shed, flooding
the meadow with
pedals of manna.
Two robins bring moss
to the crook of your canopy,
building a nest, and
a hope upon a limb
into summer.
They weave dreams
of their children
through your branches.
Holy, the benediction
of procreation.
Holy, the baptism
of shedding any hindrance
to the summer light.
The blooms are
already leaning into
release of their brilliance,
trading their treasure
for the dappled gathering
of buds of soft summer breezes.
Spirit Wind,
blow your light
into new galaxies.
Mother Earth,
pull down the sunlight
onto your stretching loam.
Brother Star,
shine within the secret
rings of the heartwood.
Sister Rain,
remember our thirst
for any news of the sea.
May The Creator's Promise of Spring be Yours.
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(C) Rick Sievers, 2010, All Rights Reserved
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