On a Clear Morning in March

Wind whistles among the trees –
oak and ash and yew and birch,
elm and aspen, maple and pine –
I can hear each one’s voice,
sweet as a bird, steady as a drum
pliant as the supple sapling,
all singing a song of praise to You

You Who holds them in Your hand;
like a child who has fallen down
and needs comforting,
they come to you for succor.
For long have they been afflicted
under the harsh hand of Man;
brothers and sisters torn away
now adorn the palaces of hubris.

You Who are the Earth,
You Who rules us all
Have mercy for our sins
against our kin, your children.
We have labored long in darkness;
open our eyes to the light of Truth
that we may rejoin the Dance
of Life into Death into Life again.

Holy Mother of the Gods,
and Holy in Yourself as well,
break us when we need breaking
that we may pour forth like seeds into the earth
Teach us the loving embrace of death,
that sacrifice is worthy of You,
that we cannot live apart from the world
because we are the world.

Lady of the Wain and Grove,
give us the words to say
when all around us destroy themselves
in the name of progress;
help us show them there is a better way,
a simpler way, though it is not easy,
and let us remember where our roots lie:
in the bosom of You.

<i>(c) Nicanthiel Hræfnhild 2009</i>

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