Rebirth Is in the Trees

A poet who does not protest injustice
Is not a poet of the people. 
— Lisa T.

Early summer, rebirth is in the trees,

in the ferns rising from last year’s leaves.

Womb Woman, She God, Giver of Births,

borne us to a new world, born us please!

Last year’s nests are full of new movement,

a precarious stem holding the life of wriggling heads,

shivers in the branches that hover over the river.

Once in a while, a small beak with black, marble eyes

pokes out, with eyes seeing the sun filtering

through the leaves for the very first time,

wondering if this world will be there for them.

The blossoming of the leaves and bursts of needles,

rise upon the horizon,

 a canvas of tall sentinels unsheathing

their sword-like leaves, displaying their armament to the sun.

Sunflowers lean a bit West as the sun fractures the horizon,

as if they’re reaching out for one more embrace from God.

The last streams of light blinds the West before

It makes its last curtsy behind the peaks,

we need to look away as She shows Her face.

Some believe this to be a woman’s holy state

as She has never shown Her face.

God births Her world in ecstasy, for just one second,

we are in perfect harmony with She.

She is complete in Her empathy,

She has touched our souls with Her mind.

The world once more spins round again,

the old order has run its course,  what was once, now is cursed.

We’ve aired our laundry for a new world to see,

God has helped us fluff and fold our mismatched sheets,

like a woman, She has the scoop,

telling each one of us is more than all of us.

God’s intent is to make the most of us

feels new again, fresh, complete.  Giving us

a new understanding of another’s plight,

gives us a cause that is completely right, and thus we unite!

The way through the wilds of the woods,

winds whisper, “You should go!”

And we will know we’ve found God

when every child can do their best, 

when we can pray unafraid,

and no one has to bear a false arrest.

They’re glimpses of God in the river’s chanting prayer,

in the water that reflects all the quivering possibilities.

Who are we amidst the seeds that fall and flow?

What will we squander, what will we grow?

Birth woman, mother, God of fertility, God of masculinity,

create us again!  Give us another chance!

Let that spinning wheel fly!

Don’t leave us as the sun sets West!

Out of darkness we’re birthed again, holding onto

a thin red thread that’s joined to Her.

We’ll unfold in the early Summer’s sky

like a small stand of trees with silver-green leaves.

And we might call it Eden.