The Desk and the Mist

A rare summer mist hovers over the cabin. 

The grasses in the field are bent 

like an army of monks in prayer.

Outside I recognize the new Earth.

The old is healed, renewed and vibrant 

with all possibility.

Inside, I linger over my desk:

loving this altar of solitude, my old friend.

I fashioned the boards with my own two hands.

But first the grain ripened 

in the rings of sun circles and forest song.

Me and the desk, both from the wild, 

bent for a time, refined, awaiting renewal, 

cleansed by the morning mist.

O, Sacred Earth come.

O, Beloved, come.

Rick

(c) Copyright Rick Sievers, July 2013, All Rights Reserved