April 11, 2022

ecoda

my church is trees and mountains 

my temple:

silence under bright and teeming stars

to find what is holy in humans

i need spaces empty of them

my tribe burns holes

in all they touch

give me instead 

a kinship of owls 

a reverent nation of ants

stately harmless herds

of deer or horses

let moss drink these tears 

which are for us all

let us become small again 

dispersing into green





ashes, ashes...

some of the worst days come when we are nostalgic about something we never really had: true love, certainty, time... our memories hold false...