Mother, mother,
Golden feather,
Upheaval maker,
Dust spreader,
Wind breaker,
Wooden cloves
of moss’s green,
Owl’s nests in bellies.
Within I find
the sap of kin,
Abiding soft hands
of mother
holding my chin.
Child, oh child,
don’t you cry.
Hear the whistling sounds
of far yellow ryes.
Soil surfaces
on lines of veins,
Green, blue and
red
Crosspassing streams.
Realms
of beauty and life,
One
as the heart
of the
light.