songs from the edge

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         In late Spring,
the trees assemble themselves in theatres of light
they wave and bend—
    attend to one another
        choral sounds ascend—
           in uncontainable thrust
birdsongs undulate—      their long mosaics
        from the dark.    from the dust.
              in callout
                          (response)
 murmurations twist and rise
                    orchestral—
symphonies lure us back into tiny moments,
      back into this one skin—       we've forgotten
skyrolling.  windwoven glides.  here I am.
                    agape—
                in her blanketing hands
 heaven on velvet ground—    we rarely touch
the forgotten stars in our bones—
      the air through our lungs
the hole in the clouds
              is the light that finds us
a singular robin appears on a gate
I love you, everything is going to be okay
       
            the world is waiting on us—
to sink into one another's arms
 at the furthest edges       of ourselves

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Are you tuning into nature these days? What are your swallows for the sorrow? So much soothe and medicine for the soul lie in our connection to nature. We are 'one skin', we've forgotten.
Are you feeling the hope that I hear? The birds simply won't stop singing.
We can only start where our feet are. Right where we are, with the next good impulse.
To find our way into the fresh air, to reach out for nourishment, to attune.
I lost my older sister in our teens, and robins seem to be conduits in the years in between.
This is a slight rewrite on a piece I wrote last year, 'Edge', not sure if it's better or worse for the edit, but it seemed want to say more.
Here's another piece Bealtaine I wrote last May. Bealtaine runs throughout May in arts and nature celebrations in Ireland. It's a big milestone in the Celtic calendar and means 'mouth of fire' or 'bright fire' or simply fertile May; halfway from Spring Equinox to Summer Solstice.
Sending symphonies of sound.