Long ago our fathers said

We have heard of things like this; stories told of past worlds and worlds to come.
Stories of moon dying...suns giving birth to other suns.
We sit. We watch and wonder what this is.
We know it is all we can do. Watch and wait and wonder.
What will the world become? What will remain?
Will the way of the fathers be regained?

With each new sun a new wind blows. It whispers secrets not quite heard.
Children's voices; a woman's wail; a chant sacred and beautiful.
My friends...we talk, low and still. Not wanting to disturb the works of creation.
A peace encircles us, knowing we are witnesses, the criers of myths to come.
We are in the womb. And when we come forth, it shall be born from us.
A retelling of truth.

The day declines, but in the eventide more and more distant suns are born.
So many suns for the world.
We long for the true night to return when no more suns are born.
My sisters whisper, "When will it end? What will ever be again?"
A cooler breeze blows. The thunder of worlds cease.
The last colors of the day fades away. Now, only the stars remain.
My sisters and I gather our blankets about us, and shelter together against the night, and follow where dreams are meant to go.

Beneath a Porcelain Sky

Beneath a porcelain sky, wintry white and blue and steely gray, the Earth holds its beauty tight resisting the slow decay of man’s advance across what was there and what now remains. The nearby mountains a patchwork, white snow fields lay bare what is bare next to wintergreen stands of reprieved timber. And in that patchwork I see the homeless run for shelter into another’s territory; they become densely compacted as surely as do we ourselves. Death looms in such a plot of race for survival. I blame no one, but we are a short-sighted lot. We are employed to weave a noose with which to hang ourselves. Ah, but it pays the bills for now, and what the future brings is the future’s concerns. There are solutions, but none which we are ready to employ. For now it is fodder for the politician. The problem is there, but the spin is an untruth stretched to a lie. But what can I do? I walk the dikes, paddle the river, climb the hills, explore the tidelands. It is my own soul I seek to find. Time enough for that at least. Perhaps it helps in some small way, but it gives meaning to me. I am my larger self. I become what I always was and will be. Connected. A piece of the whole. In the end we will all know this, when we touch the larger shore. But what a shame to see this Earthy beauty fade. It skin grows gray. It is wrinkled, it’s eyes become pools of clouds. It's voice a mere tremor, shaky and faint. Perhaps it has finished its task. Perhaps I have nearly finished mine as well.