I always return to the fields,
the fragrant skin of Mother Nature.
There the plowed furrow exposes
her flesh, pungent, vernal,
nurturing the body and the
instincts. I sorrow at the rape
of her precious gifts, those
bosoms of life, the mountains
and valleys, the very cradle
where humans were born
in universal creation. She
will not forever forgive, nor
understand, our capriciousness.
Human tantrums despoiling the
purity of this existence will
not be absorbed. The partners
in this life, the creatures of the air,
water, and the soil, will not continue
to bear the brunt of our indifference.
They are the blessed, feral children
of our Mother, as once were we. The
tree of life balances each living thing,
as all living things draw from that
life, treading only a path necessary
through the verdant veld of being.
Stones stand in silent witness shouldering
the passage of time. Granite giants that
will become dust as will all life. As
it has been for untold eons, so the
course of humankind will run out.
I am comforted by this, knowing that
life will continue changed without
our boot heel upon the neck
of our fellow creatures and fields.
Copyright: 2010, Donald Harbour