Bless the earth underfoot
the breeze on my neck
the still dawn
the open sky
the feather fall
the beetle climb
the crow call
the swift fly
the cloud drift
the rising sun
the golden field
the river run
the grass seed
the ripe plum

Bless this breath
this body
this good earth
this new day

I need these nightly rituals, now;
the damp smell of the earth
as I water the garden,
the happy presence
of seedlings sprouting,
a moment alone
with the new moon rising.
Noticing how,
wherever there are spaces,
Life fills them up.

I think
anyone who says
that miracles
aren't possible
must not have
planted
seeds

It is the seed moon,
the time of sowing.
The roads and skies
have grown quiet.
Sometimes in the stillness
I can feel the earth dreaming.

There are many things I can't do
in these strange times.
But I can plant seeds.
I hold them like prayers
in the palm of my hand,
I notice their shape and size,
the way they catch the light.
Their impossible promise.
I teach my children
to make wishes on them -
and I make wishes too.

I breathe my brightest,
most golden dreams
into these seeds,
dreams wild as sweet violets
on hidden forest floors.

Poppy, nasturtium, sunflower and sage:
bring nectar, food and medicine,
praise the sun.
Corn, squash, tomato and bean:
seeds of hope
for the creatures
and the wild places
and all those yet to come.

May this great pause
be a seed itself
for the beautiful future
which wants and waits to be born.

I think anyone who says
that miracles aren't possible
must not have planted seeds.

I sat down with grandmother oak
there on a blanket she had woven
of clovers and sweet violets
where the fat bees cobble about.
She wrapped me in her scented boughs
and gently held all parts of me –
the flesh, the brittle fragments,
the embers, the salt water and the bone –
with soft and steady breaths she blew
the shadows from my shoulders
and asked only in return of me
that I might be with her a while and,
in ancient, long-forgotten psalms,
that she might sing me home.

I caught it once,
that small, delicate pause:
a hummingbird moth
kissing a white flower
just as the last stars were fading
and the soft exhalation of the day
tumbled forth.
There was no fanfare,
no glorious sunrise -
just a quiet voice which whispered:
Listen; the earth
dreams through you.