The World is Old

Weary from housing hopes and raising dreams that
Have borne the scars of war and tempest appetites.
She has endured with wild rose-colored glasses still
Calling out from the blue with birds’ songs.
She waves natural signs like banners for prodigal sons,
But we don profit-blinders and
Invent new ways to frack, hack, blast and cast
Her far away from our thoughts.
We can't name her children that swim in our creeks.
And have forgotten how she raised her bedrock.
And what parts of her are gifts for our healing.

When she begins to show signs in super-storms and tornadoes in snow,
We ignore them like a raspy cough in the night.
She speaks on warm January mornings in a voice
Above blaring tornado sirens, "Take Heart and Cover.”
She can conjure flies and manna with a drop of dew
Silence cynics with heavenly lights and call
Grieving widowers to listen to the incantation of owls.
God forbid, if she was dying, we would grieve.
We would scramble to her bedside shores
And climb her weeping willows to be held once more.
She would be revered like the Queen of Sheba with a
Crown of pearls of great price.

Forgive us, we know what we do.
We take you for all your worth
And do things we should not do.
And leave the things you love undone.
We are your children, not because we are worthy,
But because we are earth
Mixed together in the secret of your womb.
We are each other.
Let us sing your praises and amend our lives
By loving your limestone underbelly and crawfish babies.
Let us walk upon your hills and lay in wild grasses.
Hold us gently as we make our song of death.
Rock us in your arms as our ashes float in your river
And make our way back home. 

Becca Stevens, July 25, 2013